Freefall
by LifeInABox66
Summary: For some unknown and most likely obtuse reason, England has succeeded in locking himself in the labyrinth of his own mind. A reluctant France, commissioned by a frantic Canada, must venture into the deepest, wildest thoughts of his former foe to save him.
1. Chapter 1

**OK, so I haven't abandoned **_**L'Incorruptible, **_**I swear! However, finding the time to do all the relevant research is difficult to say the least. Therefore, I decided to focus on something that did not require an insane amount of reading, and called only for an insanely disturbed imagination. Thus: this. Inspired by what happens when I allow my thoughts to meander, and fuelled by a truly impressive amount of Vocaloid songs. **

**I have had so much fun with this it's unbelievable. **

**On the other hand, I'm beginning to think a better name for this account would be 'France's Soapbox' – I can't seem to stop writing from his perspective! Mostly because it allows me to be as verbose as I please, and then some. :)**

**Well, anyway. As always, enjoy! **

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* * *

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Canada stares at the prone figure before him, stunned. Oh hell. Just because it was bound to happen one day does not make him feel any less useless, or any less scared. England was always going to do _something _to harm himself or others, in a uniquely black-arts-related way; it was one of history's little near-inevitabilities, like the Russian Revolution, or America rebelling from British rule, or England and France nearly scalping each other every time they –

- _France. _

Ludicrously aware of the foolishness of this venture, but unable to think of a better plan, Canada picks up the phone and tries to ignore England's motionless body, lying in that haphazard circle of candles, books and runes.

* * *

"So... what you are telling me, _petit, _is that _Angleterre _has done a miniature Faustus routine and paid dearly for his efforts?"

Canada winces. "Not exactly. There was no devil and no deal involved, as far as I can tell. But... essentially, in terms of meddling with magic, yes."

"So what is it that you expect me to do, exactly?" France's voice is kind, but unapproachable.

"... Help?"

Silence on the other end of the line, in which Canada knows that France is only feigning reluctance. He lets him pretend for all of about ten seconds, before breaking into the self-delusion with an unassuming: "Please?"

It is effective enough. "I will be with you shortly," says France, betraying, just slightly, a tinge of worry in the very last syllable. Nothing more, but enough to momentarily assure Canada that assistance is on its way.

"He's in some sort of... trance," says Canada. He and France both turn their gaze to the unconscious England, who they have lifted out of the cellar and moved onto the couch. Indeed, his eyes are closed with a sort of finality which defies any attempt at disturbance. "I came here to meet for tea," he adds, by way of explanation. France snickers at how incongruous this sounds, and shrugs, meekly, when Canada meets his eyes with a reproachful look.

France sits on the armrest of the couch, narrowly avoiding sitting on England's hair, which is splayed out over the end of the seat. "How did he manage this?" he asks, eventually.

"God, France, I can only guess."

"We are at a loss here; so guess away."

Canada runs a nervous hand through his tangled hair. "Sometimes he... look, I barely know what it entails, but he uses magic to... to, you know, _look. _Into the past, mostly."

"That sounds like _Angleterre,_" says France, with a smile.

"It's really not funny," says Canada, sharply. Then, apologetically, he adds: "He's always looking for something – different, I guess. Little nuances that he missed. Patterns that emerge. I don't know. Stuff. Then sometimes he tries to – to sort of _continue _the patterns."

"To see into the future?" asks France, sceptically.

"It's difficult to explain."

France runs a delicate finger along the bridge of his nose, allowing it to rest pensively at the bottom of his forehead – a nervous habit of his that Canada thinks dates from the 1700s. "Go on."

"I think he might have gone in further than usual. Deeper. And he couldn't get back out."

"Into what?"

"His mind."

France nods, slowly. "So he is trapped within his own thoughts," he says, in a manner that would be toneless, were it not for the cadences that always seem to ring in his voice regardless of its specific expression. France cannot seem to help but add some form of subtext or extra resonance to the simplest of statements, thinks Canada. Layers within layers of meaning, in which one is liable to become lost.

"Best way of explaining it, really," says Canada, glancing nervously again at England's sleeping form.

France's head snaps up again. "So what would you propose we do?"

Canada does not speak.

"Canada," says France, softly.

"It's stupid. And it's a risk," he mumbles, after a few seconds.

"That can't be helped," says France, amiably.

"You could... go after him."

* * *

"I can't believe _Angleterre _taught you this," grumbles France, as they muddle inexpertly through the rituals of candle, book and bell. He sits in the middle of the pentagram on the cellar floor, with England's head lying awkwardly on his lap, surrounded by the faint smoke of incense.

"Spend enough time with him and you pick things up," says Canada, vaguely.

France raises an eyebrow. "And I suppose it is absolutely necessary that _I _am the one to perform this ridiculous task?" he protests, weakly.

"You'll be able reach him," says Canada, simply. His voice is almost authoritative, France notes with an odd amalgamation of pride and amusement. Strange how Canada's soft, apologetic statements can often be more convincing than, for instance, the most strident of Germany's orders. "Besides, you can't do the magic – you need me for that – and I can't send myself into a trance."

"England did," notes France.

"He was always better at self-deception."

"Hmm. Faced by me, he will probably retreat even deeper into the back of his perverse and unfathomable mind," sneers France.

Canada shakes his head. He kneels next to France and takes his hand, placing it in England's. France obediently laces their fingers together. Canada dips his own hand in the wax of a nearby candle. He then presses it to France's forehead; France winces at the burn, but remains still.

"When you fall asleep, you'll be in his thoughts," says Canada. "Normally he'd be in control, but I think maybe it'll be a little more chaotic than usual, so you can probably choose the location. Try to think of a neutral place – somewhere he'll feel comfortable, but not necessarily at home."

"How do I find him?" murmurs France. The incense has a lulling effect, and he feels halfway to sleep already.

"He'll be there. He can't hide in his own mind," says Canada.

"That... I suppose makes sense."

"Good luck," whispers Canada, and pulls his hand away.

France's vision immediately fades to black, as he slumps to the floor, unconscious. Canada takes a seat in the corner of the room.

And... waits.

* * *

The meeting is meant to take place on neutral ground, but there is no ground that is neutral for them. No place where they can show their true selves, without one being at an advantage, or mutual constraints dictating their behaviour. France has chosen the one spot which even comes close to a level playing field – and so here they are at the sea. The Channel. Their most visible of barriers. The two boats approach – one speeding from Dover, the other from Calais: both meet in what France knows is the exact middle. It was strangely easy to coordinate all this – all France did was imagine the scenario, and it instantly was so. And England is here.

Surely it cannot be so simple.

They approach one another and stop side by side. They both extend planks to bridge the gap between the boats – wide and sturdy enough for one to cross over. The wind roars dully, surrounding them with a barrage of sound.

"Come over here!" yells England over the rush of the waves.

"No. Get into my boat," insists France. He will not allow England to drag him into wherever he has locked himself; England must be the one to follow _France. _Then, with any luck, they will sail back into sanity.

England growls in irritation and shakes his head.

Teeth clenched, they both stare at each other, unyielding.

Just leave it to the little brat not to cooperate. Fine.

The same thought seemingly occurring to each, they stand simultaneously and climb onto the bridge. It creaks under their combined weight. Both step forwards, until they are a foot apart. Without warning, England stumbles and grabs onto France's sleeve, then glares at him, face flushed. "There? Satisfied?" he hisses.

France moves to grip England's arms, locking them together as they balance. Somehow, the sound of their breathing seems to drown the wind and waves. A second of intensity, as they face each other, striving for some form of unspoken connection, communication, but both failing to understand and be understood.

Business as usual, in this lucid dream.

The wind intensifies and they teeter at the edge. France tries to say "This is ridiculous, _Angleterre_", but gets only halfway through 'ridiculous' before a powerful gust assaults them unexpectedly; they overbalance entirely and plunge into the water.

External sound deserts them, overwhelmed by the smothering roar of water in their ears. It was a gentle fall, but they are tunnelling rapidly downwards through the ocean. France struggles bitterly for breath, but knows it is not wholly necessary for him – merely agonising not to. He and England cling to each other, helplessly, as they sink at an unearthly pace. Were France not so preoccupied, he would laugh at how uncharacteristic this is – holding each other like children? – but the experience is all too suffocating for mirth. They are descending for what must be fathoms, as the crystal clarity of the surface deepens into an all-pervading blue which blots out the light and obscures England's features. Down, into what seems to be bottomless, lifeless, motionless depths.

Something stirs. Something scythes through the water and slices France's upper arm. Tendrils of blood appear. Another slice, another wound – this time it is England who is caught on the leg. Suddenly, the water around them is heavy with blood, as blade upon blade whizzes from some unknown source, stinging and biting as they grasp desperately at each other and at the tatters of their mangled shirt sleeves. All the time fighting the overwhelming pressure of being unable to breathe.

Through the sharp net of pain, France stares at England, whose eyes widen with an eerie sort of calm. Unexpectedly, England lets go of him and extends his hands, revealing a maze of cuts on his palms, all bleeding into the blue of their dim surroundings. France lifts his leaden arms and does the same, stretching them towards him. Their fingertips touch.

They stop falling, and hang suspended in the water for one giddy, terrifying second.

"A blood pact," says England, his voice echoing dully through the caverns of water.

And downwards again.

France tries to ask how England can speak without the water gushing into his mouth and rendering the words indistinct, but is prevented by the water which gushes remorselessly into his mouth. Choking, he blinks, writhes – anything to relieve this pressure – to silence the relentless _agony_... and yet, they still plunge inexorably downwards, _forever, _in a shroud of their own blood_..._

The blades have stopped.

And then, once more, so do they.

France is barely conscious of his own actions, yet something compels him to wrench himself away from England, whose fingertips are still joined with his –

- He pulls backwards, but a thick, viscous string of blood seems to join them together. France watches, horrified, as it stretches between them – and gradually, its scarlet colour drains away, fading into blue, then white – it is _ice, _and he cannot break it.

Once again, France tries to speak, and succeeds in expressing an inarticulate cry of surprise and pain.

_Are we bound together, then?_

"Perhaps," says England. France flinches. "But you have to find me first." He smiles, unnervingly.

Then, England twists away, seeming to absorb the strings of ice which trapped them. He makes a circling motion with his hands and the uncanny stillness of the water ceases. Suddenly, all is turmoil as he summons a whirling knot of water larger than the two of them. The force flings France to the side, as England swims inside it, quickly as an eel, vanishing.

Whatever force caused them to sink, whatever held them suspended, has disappeared along with England. France finds himself being pushed upwards.

No. _No! _He _must _not lose him! Summoning what little strength he can muster – a surprising amount, testament to the advantages nature has given to Nations under trauma – France propels himself towards the miniature whirlpool that England created, drawing himself into the inky darkness.

* * *

And still he is in water. Yet the crushing force around his lungs has eased somewhat – he is closer to the surface. The realisation lends him resolve, and he forces himself to swim. Aided by natural buoyancy – and the absence of unnatural forces – he drifts upwards.

And surfaces. Breathes. He is grateful even for the searing agony that the first surge of air provokes. He is no stranger to pain, and by now he can scarcely remember how it feels to be without it.

Gradually, he becomes aware of a numbing chill. He is, of course, no longer in the Channel – his current location resembles the Arctic more than anywhere else. _Dieu. _No land but ice. Elaborate, colossal mountains of ice. Glaciers that stretch elegantly towards the pale, frozen sky. There is daylight, but it does not seem to illuminate – it merely contributes to the rawness of the scene, and seems to be sister to the cold which pierces him to his weary bones.

_I am barely living._

The only thing keeping him alive is the fact that he cannot, under normal circumstances, die. As it is, he feels as though his body has turned to ice – a gleaming chunk of frost, floating in a glacial sea.

A profound longing for sleep brushes languidly over him, dulling all sense of purpose save the need for rest. Yet amidst the numbness lies a pinpoint of resolve: _find England. _It pricks him into action. Clumsily, he swims towards the shore – he stretches and clings to its frozen edge. Grabbing handfuls of loose snow, he scrapes at the surface, desperately searching for a grip or a hold – yet somehow, he hoists himself out of the water and, by sheer effort, pulls himself onto land.

Impossible to gauge how long he lies there, bedraggled and fatigued. The pain, excruciating before, is now almost gentle, lulling him into irregular, disturbed slumber. Yet, every time he loses consciousness, he finds himself faced by a horrifying blackness, unable to dream, and frightens himself awake.

Eventually, he rises into a sitting position, tightening his soaking, tattered coat around him in an irrational attempt to generate heat. It is still drenched in blood.

Blood.

He hastily turns over his hands, but the cuts in his palms have vanished. Every gash that those underwater blades made is gone. Only the tips of his fingers show any sign that he was ever wounded: each finger now boasts a gleaming, circular scar.

He glances around. Before him is a vast expanse of ice – an enormous island or plateau, dotted with slopes and ridges. He lowers his gaze, awed by the enormity of it – and glimpses a shadow amidst the snow.

Curious, he brushes the loose snow away, revealing a screen of translucent ice. Deep below the surface lies a dark shape. He scrapes at the white flakes which obscure it, until he has made a window of almost transparent ice, and presses his face close against it, wincing at the further stab of cold to his cheek, but adamant that he must discern the shape within.

Many metres down is a human figure, relaxed in a foetal position. It lies asleep and tranquil, wrapped in what seems to be a cloak. On its face sits an indistinct half-smile. There is a form of peace, and what almost amounts to content, in its form.

Its face is England's.

And France is screaming, choked, hoarse cries. Vainly, he scrabbles at the ground, prepared to gouge his way down to England, crazed, imagining he can tunnel through to the depths of the ice. He cannot explain why it is so important that he rescue the insane, preternatural creature who ran away from him – only that, since falling into this waking dream, his will has only been half his own.

"You cannot reach," says a flat voice from behind him. "Besides – your touch would only burn him."

France twists around. "_A-Angleterre_!" His own voice is cracked from the cold and disuse. Before him stands a – a man? – who simply cannot be England, yet there are his features, his tone, his stature. Yet he is not human or Nation! His skin is the same cerulean hue as the bottom of the ocean, although undercurrents of a darker colour seem to swirl and do battle underneath. His eyes, no longer that warm forest green that could both pierce and delight, love and disdain, are now the palest and deadliest of blues. The disdain is still there, but it has gained in harshness. He seems neither human nor spirit, dressed in white robes whose ends trail into mist. Indeed, his entire form is shrouded in a peculiar blur – France imagines he is about to melt into the air, or float away on the breeze. If such a breeze existed – for at present, all is still.

France sits up and reaches towards him. "_Angleterre! _How can you – we must – I..." He grasps at the edge of the creature's robes. "_Imbecile_ - help me up, damn you!" Reaching like a beggar at England's feet – how pathetic. France grabs for his arm.

England's eyes flash with fury. He casts France away with an imperative sweep of the arm. Although he does not use much by way of force, France feels a physical blow, agonising, as though bludgeoned by a block of ice.

"Ah," says France, breathlessly, sinking again. "Not. Not... England, then." He slumps to the ground, defeated, palms still open against the floor of ice, hope of reaching the England interred there not completely abandoned. Too weary to be lucid, he finds himself confusing the two – the sleeping figure in front of him... no, the one in the ice is sleeping; the one in front of him is very much hostile, and awake, and...

He clutches at the hazy hem of England's robe, half aware of what he is doing, half overwhelmed by everything, tempted to cease wondering and abandon himself to this irrational flow of events.

England recoils in outrage, and once more France feels as though he has been struck by a chilling blow. This time, the force is so great that he is propelled backwards, skidding along the ice and – oh, hell, _no_ – back into the water.

As he plunges downwards once more, he is certain that he can sense the England standing on the island laughing.

Or perhaps _that _is something taken from his myriad of battle-scarred memories.

Regardless, once more, he falls through the water, watching the edge of the ice plateau as he sinks, reflecting disjointedly on how England's mind is a place almost uninhabitable. No wonder he is always so terse.

The iceberg tapers into a point, deep under the water. France is sinking deeper than this point, down to where sky blue fades to indigo fades to black. He thrashes helplessly, trying to slow this descent, to no avail.

And when he has reached the point where it is almost impossible to see his surroundings, something clutches at the bottom of his coat.

In panic, he grabs at it – a hand, or a claw, black as the inky water around them. Other spindly fingers clutch at his sleeve, his hair – dragging him downwards as he kicks; a gush of water stifles an inchoate scream.

France has all but abandoned himself to his fate, completely at a loss as to its implications – Canada never mentioned a possibility of being attacked or trapped; there is no knowing what will befall him here. In vain, he attempts to imagine a different scene – closing his eyes, he tries desperately to change his surroundings as he did initially: _let me go back to the Channel, or better still, back to my own land... _but opening his eyes in faint hope, all he can see is that nightmarish blue-black, and talons still claw at his eyelids.

Thinking, furiously: _Angleterre..._

Which seems to trigger what happens next.

Two beams of light, razor-sharp, slice through the water, illuminating the area. France can make out nothing but countless black limbs of shadowy spirits – holding him are the outlines of bodies, features lost in blackness. Yet, within seconds, they loose their hold on him and retreat – slowly, they swim away. France relaxes in relief, darting an upward glance in the direction of the light's source.

His liberator is the England-figure, trapped in the centre of the iceberg; he has opened his eyes: they are the beacons that the blades of light originated from. He stares directly at France, who cannot bring himself to look away. He is still sinking – the light may have frightened his attackers away momentarily, but France does not doubt that he will soon reach the bottom of this ocean, where surely they will find him once more.

As if in response to this thought, the iceberg England stretches out his arms, one, then the other, as though sweeping away his glacial prison. Almost obediently, two bursts of white light – or perhaps fire – gush from his fingertips. It eats away at the ice, destroying the glacier from within – yet France can feel no heat; if anything, the cold intensifies. For a second, he is bathed in the afterglow of this explosion, and he is forced to shield his eyes until the blinding light ebbs away. When he looks again, the iceberg is even more distant – or, at any rate, what is left of it. A hole has been gouged out of it, leaving a thin crust on the surface of the water – like a shell, or an empty container.

And when France looks away, he sees England before him, his eyes burning into France's own. Despite its power, his gaze seems almost timid. Frightened. Cautiously, England extends an ivory hand, and on his fingertips shine scars, identical to those on France's own. In no way does he resemble the England France knows – today, at least; his expression is innocent, imploring...

France reaches out to join England's fingers with his, as before. Slowly, carefully, so as to avoid frightening this strangely timid creature. "_Angleterre,_" he mouths, deliberately.

The moment they touch, England recoils, with a piteous scream – as though in pain. _Your touch would only burn him... _He flees, agile, as though flying through the water. France tries to call after him, forgetting he cannot speak – being underwater in this place is different to reality; sometimes painful, sometimes like floating on air – reaching after him, but unable to intervene as England swims upwards, disappearing in a transient glint of light.

And France begins to drown.

All the pain of oxygen deprivation and water pressure floods back, seemingly harsher and more solid than before – and he _knows _he is to expire, to blink out of existence... closing his eyes almost involuntarily, he succumbs to some indistinct fate.

... But then, strong arms encircle him – not the ghostly, grasping hands of the water spirits, but ones that are smooth, substantial - above all, reassuringly human.

France collapses against them, eyes unable to open, allowing this unknown person to lift him. Up and up and out of the water. He expects the sudden sting of cold as they surface, and is not disappointed – yet the feeling is somehow detached from him, as though something is screening him from sensation. He is certain that it is his rescuer's doing, and sighs in mute thankfulness.

Are they flying? So it seems. Either way, they descend, and France is settled gently on the ground. He is permitted to open his eyes and identify his liberator.

England. Of course. Not the shy creature from the iceberg, but the hostile, frozen entity from the surface. As he scowls down at him, France smiles. The expression is so heartbreakingly familiar that he can do nothing but smile in grateful awe, before he sinks once more into the blackness that is not sleep, but is not consciousness, is not anything but is fuelled by the prospect of _something_...


	2. Chapter 2

**Update!**

**... I have nothing left to say. Onwards to the story!**

**

* * *

**

Naturally, he is kicked awake by his disgruntled saviour. Laughingly, France rolls over and props himself up on one hand. "You can stop already - I'm awake, _Angleterre,_" he says, good-humouredly. "You always hated mornings, I suppose. If there _are _mornings in this godforsaken void you call a mind. I suppose it all operates on much the same principle."

Hoisting himself upright – knowing better than to ask for a hand up from his companion – he meets England's eyes, seeking a gleam of mirth or even a shadow of provoked annoyance in his countenance; he encounters only an impassive stare of open resentment. There is barely recognition in England's tone as he contemptuously spits: "Fool."

"England?"

"You let him escape! You _released _him!"

France ought to have expected this – honestly, in some ways he did, but repressed his doubt. This – this creature of ice is not England, although he resembles him. He is simply a product of England's mind. The one in the iceberg – _that _was the Nation he was searching for. A crushing sense of loss overwhelms him as he is faced by pitiless eyes – a cruel substitute for the bright, soulful England of before.

"Where did he go?" whispers France, distraught.

"I don't know," says his companion, crushingly.

"He... fled," remembers France. "Why did...?"

"He was meant to stay dormant!" cries England – somehow France cannot bring himself to think of him as _not _England, despite the bitter disappointment it evokes – angrily. "Safe and unharmed! Undisturbed!"

"Is he not safe in your _mind_?" asks France, frustrated. Then, barely knowing what he is saying, but aware of some gross injustice, he adds: "_What about the blood pact?_"

What about it indeed? Has he no control of what he is saying?

"You must leave," says England, harshly.

"I can't! I wouldn't even know how!" France grabs his arm, ignoring the numbing pain that results (it appears that England can inflict both pain and cold, and protection, at will). "Don't you even recognise me, you pompous _cretin_?"

He is rewarded for this comment by a silencing blow, inflicted by a short wave of England's hand.

France immediately lets go. He waits to regain control of both his sensation and his speech, in the meantime aiming at England a look of burning reproach.

"_Angleterre,_" he says deliberately, upon recovery. "I don't give a damn if you won't answer. You can try to hurt me all you like – as far as I know, I'm safe, no? I cannot _die _here. Really I do not care if you want to torture me out of pique. At the moment, all I care about is bringing you out of your own thoughts – which I _will _do - with your cooperation, you shadow of a deluded mind, or without it."

The two glower at each other for a long while. France is unwittingly reminded of previous disputes with England – the similarity is almost laughable, in an utterly heart-rending way.

Realising England will not relent, France is the first to break the silence. "Do what you will," he says, decisively. "I do not care. I am going to find him, regardless of whether you decide to help." Deliberately, he falls silent for a few moments, before taking the emotional offensive once more. "For rescuing me? Thank you."

After all, he did not have to do it, meaning that he must have some form of feelings, however muted. France begins to walk away, knowing that in a few seconds, he will know whether or not he has succeeded in breaking through to them.

Impossible to tell. All France knows is that he has not affected this creature enough to make him follow, for England lets him walk away. A pity, for France has no idea of where to begin – of which direction to travel in, even.

"Stop." The tone is imperative, but not entirely without sentiment.

France, suppressing a triumphant grin, complies. Turns, slowly. "Yes, _cher_?" he says, ironically, knowing that England – were this England – would be incensed by the address. He also knows that he can count on England's overwhelming curiosity, of which this copy seems to have inherited at least of flicker. A relief. Rarely has France's emotional deduction been too badly inaccurate – it would be a shame, should it fail him now. It is nice to have something to rely on.

"I may as well travel with you," says England, as France knew he would. "We both seek to find him, after all. It may as well be together as much as apart."

"I don't matter, then?" The corner of France's mouth quirks into a smile.

"You are a meddling irrelevancy," snaps England.

"It's all one," shrugs France, success having improved his temper and tolerance. "Lead the way."

* * *

Canada sits on the edge of his chair, watching the two slumbering Nations avidly for any sense of movement. He is not gratified, but then, he does not expect to be. Still, he worries.

Almost angrily, he wonders how England could have been so careless, so idiotic as to _lose _himself. How can he manage to mingle caution with hot-headedness so neglectfully? Surely it is impossible for one being to be so varied, and so _insufferable. _

Insufferably _stupid._

Immediately, Canada feels guilty for judging him so harshly. England did, after all, look after him once, however neglectfully. It is churlish to criticise.

But he just does not understand _how –_

And there it is. Of course.

Canada is the stupid one, for imagining that something so reckless on England's part could ever have been accidental.

So the question is, then, not how, but _why._

* * *

England grabs France roughly by the arm, whilst delivering only a small, chilly sting in the process. France decides to consider this progress. "What are you doing?" he asks, lazily.

"Hold on," England orders. He draws an uneven circle in the air with one delicate finger. Instantly – France gives a start of surprise that is hampered by the steely grip on his sleeve - the space within the circle dissolves into black, full of writhing, mingling shapes – a tunnel, or portal of sorts, just as before.

France suspects that this is mostly for show, but bites down on his criticism, reluctant to give his companion another excuse to deliver a blast of cold pain.

England steps through, dragging France along with him; and France's abortive squawk of "what are you _doing_" is entirely swallowed by a rough rush of fluidity. One surge of dizziness later and they emerge in another scene entirely. England lets go of France, abruptly.

They stand in a cramped room, with walls that seem to continue without end, reaching to infinity. France can see no ceiling – only a faint spot of light. The walls themselves are lined with shelf after shelf, and the wooden shelves are filled with scrolls. Archaic, parchment constructions – typical of England, thinks France, to be so anachronistic.

In the middle of the floor sits another England – this time, one who looks almost ordinary: that is to say, the image of the England France is accustomed to. He wears a loose, lacy shirt, with a threadbare ruff around his neck, something borrowed shamelessly from the Elizabethan era. In his heavily ink-splattered hands, he clutches a feather quill – next to his knees rests a large bottle of blue ink. For a while, he does not notice France's presence, being too preoccupied with writing – furiously and illegibly. France suppresses a laugh as he notes that a spot of ink adorns the corner of his mouth.

"You're not him," says France, reluctantly disturbing England's work. True – he is all too diligent, resembling Estonia perhaps more than his _Angleterre. _"But perhaps you can tell me what happened to him."

The England on the floor gives a startled jump, upsetting the ink bottle. Quickly, France kneels and catches it before too much of the liquid spills. As he does, their eyes meet, almost skittishly. For once, England's are their ordinary brilliant green, and France has the momentary desire simply to sink into them, to absorb the hue, falling through those emerald forests as he fell all those fathoms down through the ocean. The impulse is fleeting, however, as those eyes do not register warmth or familiarity, but merely confusion – wide and glassy. Then, unexpectedly, recognition swims to their surface.

"I know you," England murmurs, reverentially. "You turn up in the _story_. All the time." He makes an enthusiastic sweep of his arm, as though including the whole library in his statement.

"I do?"

"Always," England assures him, naively. "You and others. The others have never visited before." His voice cracks childishly on that siren word: _others._

"This is an exception," says France, hastily. Then, more to himself, he adds, wryly: "Typical that I would be the first to do something so invasive."

England looks up at him with wide, curious eyes, as though trying to absorb the sight of him. As though he could capture his form with vision alone and trap it on the parchment before him.

"Forget what I said," sighs France, recognising that this creature possesses curiosity, not answers. "I wonder... do you know where he might have fled to? The – the original, that is?"

"... Original?"

"The trapped one. The one who was _hidden_," says France, surprising himself at the harshness with which he speaks. As though he is condemning a heinous crime, as opposed to striving for an accurate description. _Careful_.

"The...?" says England, but gets no farther, due to sheer incomprehension. The ink blot near his mouth wobbles tremulously.

"Does it say anything about him in the scrolls?" asks France. "Have you ever written about him?"

England shakes his head, dazedly.

France glances back at the ice England, who has been oddly silent during this conversation. His countenance is, unsurprisingly, scornful. "He cannot answer _that_," he scoffs, imperiously.

"I am asking all the wrong questions then, am I?" asks France, incensed. "Why don't _you_ try a hand at interrogation?"

England looks disbelievingly at him, as though struggling to comprehend how France could deign to make such a request. A look to which France is thoroughly accustomed.

"He's clearly not here," continues France. "True, this is a room in which I am sure England would ordinarily spend much time – but not _that _one." He, France realises, was the _essence _of England. The one who was trapped in the iceberg. The one who seemed at once a preternatural being and an embodiment of all that was human - but lithe, like a dove. He is the light in the eyes of the child Nation who could find original nuance in any familiar sight, who thought as a matter of course that the fields and the trees and the flowers were all one, and delighted in sharing their secrets. The mystic who allowed cynicism and age to tarnish his innocence – now polished and unveiled in the form of one elusive being. The one with whom France shares a blood pact.

... _Blood pact?_

He has only superficial control over his thoughts, it seems. Something is pushing them in all sorts of unexpected directions, like a ghostly, guiding hand. Benevolent or no, it unsettles him.

Focussing on the cold reflection of England who stands antagonistically before him, France cannot bear to be wrenched away from his recollections. The look which _this_ England aims at him is hate distilled. Poisonous to the eye, thinks France, spitefully. The unlucky air that lies between them must be suffering its effects.

"We will move on," decides England. "This has been useless." His tone seems to indicate that the responsibility for this failure lies with France.

France stands. Bracing himself for the ineluctable pain that will follow such an action, he places an arm on England's shoulder, to prepare for the next journey.

Yet there is none, save a brief chill, which subsides almost instantly. France takes a sharp breath of surprise. England shoots him a glance that is almost amused – even mischievous. France has time to register the trick, and display the beginnings of a half-smile, before England jerks his head away, indignantly. Ah. It was by no means a shared joke, but a haughty little show of superiority, then. France tosses his own head, contemptuously, before his vision twists and melts into a kaleidoscope of colours, as once more, the setting shifts. After a few seconds, it settles into solid lines, and they are, once more, in another place – another scene from the bizarre opera of England's mind.

* * *

It is a darkened landscape that greets them – one which is burdened with a heavy, black and bloodstained sky. The air seems to crackle with heat – no wonder, for they seem to have travelled from one extreme to the other: lying slumped in the distance is a colossal volcano, trickling gleaming strands of lava. The rocks on which they stand are the colour of burnt umber, with streaks of sepia; they are light, porous and seem to yield beneath their feet.

France looks to England, whose glacial frame shimmers in the heat. Ash coats his once flawless robes, and his eyes are veiled by a film of water.

"You, _Angleterre, _are looking the worse for wear," says France. "This was not a wise place to choose, I fear. Imbecile – you are a creature of _ice_."

England sneers at this. Moisture drips from his hair, like honey on gold. He seems airy, insubstantial.

"_Dieu, _you are not going to melt, are you?" asks France, irritated, and extends a hand.

The second France touches the arrogant copy of England, he seems to collapse – before France's eyes, he gleams and dissolves into the air.

Horrified, France whirls around, as if expecting him to materialise again, but there is no sign of his companion. He sinks to his knees and frantically pats the ground before him – no use – there is no lingering moisture, or even a twist of vapour to mark his disappearance.

_Angleterre. _Yet another – lost.

His fingertips sting. Slowly, he turns his hands over: beads of blood are seeping through the tiny scars. They trickle downwards, to the centre of his palms, until he is holding two small handfuls of liquid. They spill over onto the ground. France is hyperventilating, sweating - stifling the urge to scream.

The blood puddles on the ground, sinuous and bright. A patch of light lies in the centre – gradually, it sharpens and clarifies until France sees a face. The radiant face of the trapped England, the one who escaped the iceberg.

He reaches towards it, but the image vanishes as the blood evaporates in the heat, leaving a dark stain.

Looking down at his hands, France sees that the blood has solidified into crimson ropes, like vines, which plunge into the ground, rendering him trapped. He tugs at the confines, receiving nothing for his efforts but an excruciating hurt – each finger a pinpoint of agony.

To his horror, the volcano continues to erupt in earnest – a wave of lava washes inexorably towards him. Not viscous, as one would imagine, but liquid and rapid-moving. France has seconds to pull away – he tries – again, to no avail. He is engulfed in molten rock.

The pain is unimaginable. Every nerve of his is tortured until it collapses – every inch of skin is ravaged. France feels the structure of his body yield, until he ceases feeling or thinking altogether.

* * *

All is hushed in England's room. The candles have burned down to stubs – those which have not already melted away – and Canada no longer sits poised on the edge of the uncomfortable wooden chair, but leans against the seat, fast asleep. His tranquillity matches that of England and France, who lie insensible, calm and self-contained within their shared universe. Their hands are still laced tightly together, and a trickle of wax has landed in England's disordered hair.

France is surprised to wake at all, yet wake he does, opening his eyes to soft green light. He is hovering in a emerald cocoon – literally emerald, or perhaps glass, as the walls seem to be comprised of some feather-light crystal. It reflects a hundred little beams of light, which warm his skin slightly. Looking down at himself, he realises first of all that he possesses a body – one which is not even the slightest bit disfigured, which comes as a definite relief. Secondly, he notes that he is wearing a set of robes similar to his previous guide's – save that these are a deep red, not ice blue.

Extending a hand, he sees that the scars are still present, but his fingers bear no wounds. Reassuring, really. He touches the crystalline wall of his enclosure – it disintegrates before him. Slowly, he drops to the ground.

He is now standing on top of three stairs at the end of a long, rectangular room. It is swathed in a lavish red carpet and lined with pillars of marble and gold. It would seem to be a banqueting hall of some kind, but is utterly bereft of furniture. Meanwhile, the windows are stained glass, similar to those of a medieval church – yet the scenes they depict are not religious. They are landscapes without inhabitants. France recognises a few of them: one is of the icy land in which he first found himself; another is of a vast, expansive ocean; the next is the volcanic setting of before. France shudders at the last; his body aches slightly from the memory.

His gaze settles on the end of the room, where a luminous figure resides.

"England!" he exclaims, joyously. His voice echoes against the high roof, until the whole room seems to burst with sound.

As it dies away, England steps forward, tentatively, as though summoned. His feet float above the ground – his white cloak drifts delicately behind him.

France treads forward simultaneously. It takes every effort to be cautious and slow, when he longs to rush to meet him – yet how could he be brash?

Their measured steps mirror each other. Footsteps clash softly in unison. Eventually, they reach the centre of the room, never lifting their gaze from each others' eyes. Solid blue meets and mingles with a pure white that contains perhaps a tint of the original green.

One pace away from each other, they pause. In what has become a familiar gesture, they both reach out their hands. France is terrified of burning him, as before, but England is so unfazed that it seems ludicrous to anticipate harm. Matching scars dot their fingertips. Slowly, tantalisingly, they meet.

France expects another unearthly scream, or for the figure before him to melt away – the mind is so precarious, so insubstantial, that events are as transient as dreams – but all is still. Carefully, they advance, allowing their palms to touch. England's are warm, like the light that was drawn into the crystal.

They face each other, almost questioning. France does not dare to give voice to his doubts and fears; England displays none, only inquisitiveness. As always, understanding between them is given no words. Possibly because there never was an understanding to which they could give voice: no comprehension; no sympathy; only a pervasive sense of connection that permeates their every action.

Gazing at him from beneath lidded eyes, almost appalled by his own audacity, France tilts his own head forward. England does not recoil. Just as before, they move towards each other, as though magnetised, each willing to go only as far as the other dares. Slowly, ever so slowly, their lips touch, so lightly that they may as well be spirits, so unobtrusively that, were they underwater, the movement would scarcely cause a ripple.

The instant France closes his eyes fully and leans in to deepen the kiss is the moment that the scene seems to drift away. His eyes snap open, and he claws madly at the fading image, trying to clutch it in his fists – anything to retain the beauty of this reunion, snatched away at the defining moment -!

Of course, it is too late; naturally, there is nothing he can do. The vision trickles away as water in cupped hands ineluctably drains and dwindles to nothing, and before him is nothing, nothing

* * *

- light. And sound. Opening his eyes once more, he is greeted by a stare that is no longer soft white-green, but a bright shade of blue which stabs. He lies prone on a rough woven blanket. Sitting before him is his reluctant guide, who he witnessed melt into the atmosphere. _This is the mind – we cannot disappear, nor can we really die_.

"It's you," France mumbles, dully.

Could there be the shadow of some movement in that silent, haughty face? A tensing of the muscles that could not be attributed to the shifting myriad of blue that is his skin? Satisfied, France thinks there could be. He has hurt him, just a little. Good.

"Ungrateful little incompetent," hisses England, in a tone that freezes the surrounding air. "Are you so smitten with an illusion?"

He witnessed the scene in the hall, did he? France wrinkles his nose in distaste at the thought. "Nothing could have been further from illusory," he retorts. "_Traître_! You don't want me to reach him! _You're _not the real England. You're his mask."

"Whatever gave you that impression?" he says, coldly.

"Every interaction I have ever had with him!" snaps France. "The hostility is all veneer. It's the screen through which he communicates. Sweep away the screen, like so much rubbish, and you reach the essential self within." Frustration, accumulated from the loss of the vision, is gathered together into one painful ball within his chest, like the very image he tried so desperately to retain, as he lashes out in attack.

"You could not be more deluded."

"Oh, you think I mean his hostility to _me_?" says France, suddenly. "That, I grant you, is real. We have always been at each others' throats, and most likely always will be. I am not talking about how he treats others – I am talking about his idea of _himself. _The reserve. The cynicism. _That _is the illusion." He cannot continue like this. Cannot muster the energy required to hate – not after that ephemeral encounter in the hall. A sudden wave of tiredness washes violently over him, carrying his grasp on the situation away along with the tide.

"Pretty thoughts. All equally misinformed."

France blinks at him, fuzzily. "_Dieu,_" he says, "you have his eyebrows..."

"And _you_ are still delirious," says England, disdainfully.

France drifts back into a fitful sleep.

* * *

Canada snaps awake, guiltily. He had not meant to sleep; watching the two unmoving bodies slowly _breathe, _however, is a somniferous task. Still, he hastily checks that they are, indeed, breathing. They are. There is no change, and hours have passed. He was not expecting it to take so long, but honestly, he does not know what to expect at all, so anything is plausible.

He brushes a strand of hair from France's eyes and reflects on how strange it is that this living form should be an uninhabited husk, little more than a breathing machine – and stranger still, that England's head contains not one consciousness, but two. You could not tell, from looking.

Surely this, for Nations, must have some bizarre unintended consequence. He knows, though, that if the actual lands of England and France should begin to shift and merge, like two gargantuan magnets, he would be able to feel it. As it is, all is still here, and silent. The candles have long since burnt out or died away; mechanically, he sets about relighting those that are salvageable and scraping at the remains of those that have decomposed into puddles on the floor.

England will murder him for making such a mess of his cellar.

Canada will bear the lecture with gladness, if it means that he will only return.

And why... and why, above all, _why _did he do it? Why plunge willingly into the uncharted corners of one's own mind?

Canada drums his nails on the wooden floorboards, frustrated. Was it a whim? That, he would almost believe of England. It does not, however, explain why he would be so careless.

The cellar, he realises, in one of those moments where consideration brings the forgotten senses to the forefront of the mind, is uncomfortably cold. He itches to run upstairs and fetch a jacket or blanket, but does not dare break his vigil. The more he imagines doing so, the more unbearable the temperature becomes – despite how, before, he barely noticed it.

The mind, thinks Canada, holds sway over so much that is tangible.

"I hope you're still trying," he says, shuddering at the disruptive sound of his own voice. "Not that you'd give up," he adds, almost sadly. "Just... keep going, yes?"

France makes no response. But of course, he expected nothing less.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: OK, so not to gush, and I know I already replied to the reviews, but nonetheless **_**thank you so much **_**to the people who read/reviewed/favourited/alterted this fic! Seriously, I did not expect anybody to be interested in this. But you guys were! Yay!**

**(It occurs to me that I always begin A/Ns with 'OK, so'. Probably it says something dramatic about my character, but clearly I lack the psychoanalytical skills required to understand it. Hell, I can't even spell psychoanalytical without the officious help of spell check.)**

**Anyway, I think this might have been my favourite chapter to write so far, so I hope you enjoy! :)**

* * *

France wakes to drops of rain gently tapping at his face. At first, they are sparse and easy to disregard, but soon the shower deepens until he feels as though he is being pelted continuously by soft pebbles. Induced to rise, he slowly lifts himself up to a sitting position, drawing his knees up to his chest like a child, lightly slinging off the blanket. The water stains his robes a darker red; the little rivulets seep into the thin cloth, leaving enigmatic little patterns. France holds a droplet on the back of his hand, like a ladybird, tilting it curiously from side to side. He considers the inescapable connection between water and blood.

The droplet leaps up, away from his hand and, defying gravity, jumps spinning into the distance. France chuckles, softly, watching it blend with the sky.

With a sidelong glance, he realises that England has been mutely observing him. Hastily, France brushes the excess water from his hands, swiping an arm across his face to disperse the mask of liquid that has collected there. England's gaze does not alter or shift.

France almost smiles at him, before checking himself and reversing it to an odd sort of grimace. Deadpan, England raises a bushy eyebrow.

They are disturbed by the sudden crackle of bullets. With a yelp of surprise, France overbalances and falls from the blanket into the mire which surrounds them. Standing, he finds himself dripping with mud. Ignoring England's short, sharp bark of laughter, he begins to take in his surroundings properly, tense and apprehensive. They are positioned on the flat edge of a battlefield. All that has not been flooded by sludge appears to have been stripped or trampled by armies' advance – the trees which remain are barren; the thick smoke of cannon fire combines with the lighter natural mist, cloaking the landscape; the storm clouds above are a dull grey, interspersed by a few spare patches of glossy night sky. At the centre of this field stand two opposing armies, dressed in coats of red and blue, respectively – yet they are not human, but resemble the shadow creatures from before.

France succumbs to a keen thrill of fear. He knows all too well where he is, and suspects that this is a favourite haunt of England's preoccupied mind. Sure enough, heading the two forces – who, for the moment, stand dormant, poised for battle – are two figures, each aiming a rifle at the other.

He was never present, but this situation feels all too familiar: history texts, England's occasional shaded expressions, and the testimony of America himself (right after the it happened; they were close then) combine into something coherent enough.

France dashes forward to meet the figures, anticipating protests from England, but encountering none. So he rushes towards the armies, inhibited only by the muck which clings insinuatingly to the soles of his bare feet.

He reaches the figures at the front of the forces. Stands to the side, between the two.

One is England, not his guide, but another, looking the very image of himself during the late eighteenth century: that is to say, imperious, determined and steely. America – for, of course, the second figure is America – is... not himself, not human; what, after all, did France expect? His shape is his own, true, but his face - it is hidden by a crumbling opera mask, painted in decaying, garish colours: a faded, childish caricature. The lips are grotesquely painted into a smile, or grimace – even the eyes are covered by faded circles of dull blue paint.

_England, I choose liberty after all..._

_... You always were so naive, you fool..._

The speech is not external – it seems to resonate directly inside France's head, like fragments of a half-remembered moment. Neither figure moves; even their lips remain still. They simply face each other, eye to masked eye.

_Th-there's no point in firing, is there? Damn it... why...damn!_

_You used to be... so big..._

America's voice echoes, throbbing with a kind of music; it is not the brash voice of the grown Nation, but nor is it the happy peal of the child's – it has, however, its own youthful melody. France remembers revolutionary America and sighs with something that surpasses nostalgia.

He has no desire to linger; he knows the outcome of this little escapade if not the details, and feels disinclined to investigate England's regretful memories any further.

He knows what will follow, anyhow. England will relent. Then, in the hours, days, years, centuries to follow, he will relentlessly torture himself with this flickering, dying memory. Then, the well-worn ache of the event will chafe afresh at every step he takes away from it.

Yet time has clearly warped the recollection. Instead of kneeling, England suddenly moves – his face modulates painfully from haughty to anguished – to snatch at America's mask. He does not succeed in grabbing it, for it crumbles away at his touch. Dust blooms expansively over America's face. After a fraught moment of anticipation, it dissipates, revealing – blackness.

He is nothing more than a shadow spirit, identical to the army that rests behind him.

France recoils, startled. England merely looks resigned, as though this is nothing but an unpleasant duty that he is doomed to repeat once more. As though he recognises that he is facing the monsters and marionettes of his own creation.

Deliberately, America steps backwards, mingling with the crowd of soldiers, who step apart to let him through. He is indistinguishable from the crowd.

England stumbles forward, half trips, half kneels. He curls over, holding his head inches above the mud – then, in one fluid motion, he appears to fold into the ground; he disintegrates into sand, which blends with the rain and the dirt until it is indiscernible. His uniform, rifle and sword lie abandoned on the floor, like a corpse.

A bell rings out from somewhere unseen.

France feels a presence at his shoulder. He whips around to see England, the first England, his reluctant guide – the icy blueprint of the original image. His expression is not sorrowful, but stern; France peruses it for any trace of regret, but finds little of note, and wonders how a product of his easily angered _Angleterre's _mind can be so impassive. He feels the indomitable urge to fracture this stoicism, to somehow force his cool disdain to flare into unquenchable, uncontrollable _rage_.

The raucous clangs of the hidden bell still play; each tone seems to cut through France like a blunt knife. Abruptly, he understands its significance – the realisation is so overwhelming that he can do nothing but double over laughing, each breath of mirth harsher than the last.

"_It tolls for thee_!" he gasps, in between the manic laughter which threatens to choke him. "_It tolls for thee_!"

Satisfyingly, England's countenance darkens until it is as savage as the storm clouds above them.

"_No man is an island_, _Angleterre_!" splutters France. Oh, he could just _bathe _in the sheer irony of it all!

"Bastard!" England's insult is almost visceral, as though wrenched from deep within the core of his once-sheaved emotions.

France simply continues to laugh, not from amusement, or even spite, but from bitterness, simply bitterness. He anticipates an icy wall of pain for his impudence, but none arrives – England seems too shocked even for that. It occurs to France that his jibe was more effective than all the elemental powers of pain in the world. For all physical suffering can do – and France has endured plenty – it cannot compare with emotional upheaval, particularly in their current setting.

The shadow spirits stand motionless, still clothed peculiarly in army apparel.

England hurtles over to the uniform of his fallen self and unsheathes his sword, hand trembling just slightly as he swipes it in France's direction. Dodging out of its path, France decides to follow suit – as it is England's mind, England's mask may as well set the tone of the proceedings. Accordingly, he backs away, nearer to the – ostensibly American – shadow army; swiftly, he steals the sword of one of the soldiers. As expected, they do not react – the few closest to him step backwards, like a murder of crows. France indulges in a slow, sly smile; these creatures no longer clutch at him – on the contrary, they seem wary of him above ground.

He and England stand facing each other, swords pointing at opposite angles in a broken cross, poised for combat. His opponent, however, seems reluctant to strike – contented, perhaps, with the mere threat of violence.

"Perhaps you would have done better to have remained within your own borders," says France, provocatively.

England lunges. France gives one last chime of laughter, and parries. They turn, exchanging places, and fall back. As though England is being courteous, allowing him the opportunity to graciously back down.

Unlikely.

"_Each man's death diminishes me, for I am involved in mankind," _continues France, seeing both the quote and the hostility through to its conclusion._ "_True for _our_ kind, no? Very true. Your poets, shoddy and vulgar as they were, did have a knack for cornering neat concepts and taming them for their use," he adds, with relish. He is no longer sure of what he is attempting to provoke, besides fury.

He succeeds at that, at any rate. Once more, England rushes at him; again, they clash swords, and soon begin fencing in earnest. France savours the experience – how he has missed those intimate fights of old - now exchanged for clinical, impersonal warfare that destroys far more efficiently, but leaves little space for catharsis! His movements become steadily more theatrical as the reckless sparring deepens to authentic battle; he twirls, dodges, almost dances, slipping easily back into the familiar rhythm of unrestrained conflict. England's style has always been less subtle – or, as he would have it, less like the narcissistic villain of some cheap melodrama – and more brutal. Fuelled by vindictiveness more than artistry. Yes: whilst France makes battle an art, England confines it to simple, confident retaliation.

The metallic clash of blades splits the tranquillity of the impartial battlefield. Interrupting the flow of the dance, England slashes a razor-thin cut on France's shoulder; the cloth parts neatly to reveal a narrow scratch which blurs with bleeding. France soon repays him with a slice to the chest, simultaneously nicking England's cheek with the very tip of the sword. The liquid which ebbs from the wounds is not the chilling blue he expected, but the same vital red as anyone else. A single crimson trickle runs down the side of his face, like a raindrop, or a tear. He seems unaware of this, making no attempt to brush it away.

In the past, their fights were more or less equally divided into victories and defeats. That it continues as long as it does is testament to the continuation of this trend: upper hand or no, England's skill is matched perfectly to France's.

So it comes as a shock when France finds himself disarmed by a sudden, clever manoeuvre. Well. There had to be a winner one way or another – though, truth be told, he had envisioned fighting until doomsday. (What a truly interesting way to exist...) The weapon is knocked from France's grasp; the force of the hit propels him backwards as he collapses to the ground.

England's look of outrage dissipates, making way for a deadly, sinister smirk. With a contemptuous flick of the wrist, he sends France sprawling with that numbing, telekinetic force he commands. Scarcely hesitating for reflection, he drives the sword into France's heart.

Shock. A broken heartbeat. More pain than one would reasonably expect.

As the steely blade slices into him, sending a nauseating chill through his tormented body, France struggles to choke out one last manic laugh. "_If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less,_" he whispers. The words grate at his throat.

England's arrogant grin... softens? Perhaps; difficult to tell, as his vision is decidedly blurred. On the whole, unlikely; probably some warped form of visual wishful thinking...

Nonetheless, even as it becomes impossible to make out definite shapes, unprecedented as it is, he is certainly not imagining the feeling of arms about his shoulder and waist, or the awareness of being lifted up out of the dirt, or even the bizarre twisting sensation to which he has become so accustomed, indicating the journey through the various scenes of England's consciousness.

* * *

Sometime later, France becomes aware that he is once again lying on the floor. The pervasive twitter of birdsong overwhelms the area, combining with the melodious rustling of leaves to create a soft aura of sound. This time, he refuses to open his eyes instantly, although after briefly tracing his chest with a blind arm, he reassures himself that the sword has been removed and, indeed, the wound has vanished. Amusing how harm here is so easily reversed.

_Let us see if emotional damage is equally fleeting._

"You realise that this is effectively the second time you have either killed me or left me to die, _cher,_" he says, casually. Funny – normally when France slings around various terms of endearment, there is always some degree of sincerity to them: by contrast, he decides, this is done solely to annoy. His eyes are still obstinately closed, and thus he cannot mark England's reaction, but is acutely aware of his presence.

Silence follows.

"I do not mean anything by it," adds France, in lieu of a response. "I simply make a pertinent observation."

A rueful laugh from beside him, or is he mistaken?

Hah. No mistake. Strange as it seems, France laughs too. Then, almost instantly, he checks himself. He refuses to be charming in the presence of this demon. England seems to sense this intention, as France can feel him stiffen, moving from comparatively relaxed to violin-string tense. Good. France and the real England may be capable of certain camaraderie in their enmity – but he and this frozen puppet? Never.

Breathing out slowly, France reminds himself to focus. Re-assess what he has learned. Canada said that he must find England, who is lost in the depths of his mind. The England he must find is the one who was frozen into the iceberg, the luminous being who he met in that silent hall. Presumably the iceberg symbolised his entrapment. It logically follows that all the other Englands are merely stray thoughts – they are not the genuine consciousnesses, but products _of _a consciousness. His current guide, for instance, embodies the cynicism that England so often uses as a shield. The shifting scenes, the shadow spirits... all are illusions – literally figments of the imagination. France is travelling in the realm of thoughts, hence anything or anyone he encounters are not objects or beings in themselves, but subjects of the original England's mind.

Which means that wherever France is located, the genuine England is also present. After all, how can the current setting exist if there is no-one to imagine it? The only other consciousness here is France, and he is not creating these scenes, but allowing them to act upon him. It would be a mistake to imagine that this place is one vast country, with many different lands in which one may freely travel: no, it is all one place which may modify in appearance, more akin to an ever-varying stage.

The conclusion? Be wary of the ice England, his guide. The plan of action? Much as it pains him to do so, he must passively accept events as they occur and bide his time – it is, after all, the only realistically available option. Wait for the real England to show his face.

And then? And then, France will utilise the finest of his talents: improvisation.

"Where are we now?" he asks England, making an effort to sound as cold and distant as possible – unfortunately, if there is anything France cannot manage to emulate, it is the cold. Like the antithesis of his icy companion, he cannot help but convey warmth, even if it is of the variety which burns.

"Look around you, fool," England replies – lazily, rather than necessarily scornfully. "Open your eyes."

"Tell me yourself," demands France, capriciously. "I wonder how accurately the description will fit. Or if you will exaggerate, perhaps lie. Call it a study in perspective."

France's _Angleterre _would have snorted and said _you always were an existentialist bastard, weren't you? _This England, however, refrains. Instead, he complies with France's request, which is... not unexpected, but a pleasant surprise nontheless. "We are currently situated in a rainforest," he begins.

"_Angleterre. _Honestly. I am all for eloquence, where appropriate, but that 'situated' was utterly superfluous. A simple, unassuming 'we are in a rainforest' would have sufficed." France stretches out, luxuriously. Again, under normal circumstances, his England would have replied sharply with: _this coming from the most overblown speaker I have ever had the misfortune to meet. _That or he would have attempted to strangle him.

Yes, upon reflection, definitely the strangling.

_This_ England most likely just shoots him a look of pure hatred, but since France refuses to open his eyes, happily it is lost on him. England continues. "Overhead, there is a canopy of the most brilliantly coloured trees, so closely interwoven that not a ray of sun or sky can peer through. We are literally surrounded by a myriad of different shades of green."

The birdsong continues. Around them, the air is warm, thick and damp, carrying the fresh, vibrant smell of grass and trees.

"How can it be so brilliantly _green,_" drawls France, "if there is nary a ray of sun to illuminate it?"

"The leaves seem to act as a filter," replies England, patiently. "So the light seeps in, but emerges emerald-tinged. You are insufferable," he adds, with virtually no change in tone.

"Ah, ever the amateur poet, _Angleterre,_" says France. "And, like all mediocre versifiers, you cannot tolerate the slightest hint of constructive criticism." As soon as the words cross his lips, he regrets them. Truly, he _must _stop teasing. Currently, he is treating the emotionless spirit who plunged a sword through his heart quite affably, almost as he would treat a friendly enemy.

_In all truthfulness, Angleterre and I have, in the past, perhaps subjected each other to worse than an inconsequential stab wound._

Even so.

To distract himself from this dangerous line of thought, France finally peers out from under his eyelids to witness their surroundings for himself.

True to England's description, they lie under a vivid canopy of trees and rope-like vines. What he took to be a blanket of sorts is in fact a thick, cushioned undergrowth of tall grass and fallen leaves. The multitudinous plants glisten with crystal dewdrops. England himself – sprawled carelessly next to France – seems more of a spirit of water than of ice: a thaw has occurred, as though the humid air has precipitated a change in his demeanour. Even his eyes – before, so pale – have softened to a deep azure blue. The lines of his figure and clothing, once blurred, have sharpened, like a photograph refocused. His skin is still that unworldly shade of ever-shifting blue, yet he seems overall less supernatural, more...

Anyhow.

Glancing about him, France narrows his eyes at his guide. "You went to all the trouble to describe the _colours _in such immaculate detail," he says, affronted, "yet you neglected to mention the _fairies._"

England blinks at him, blandly. "I was about to come to that," he shrugs. And smirks.

They are, indeed, flanked by hovering, foot-high little glowing figures – like dolls with pretensions to grandeur, thinks France. If one squints, one can tell that their faces are blank, black; they are, after all, nothing but the usual shadow spirits in floating, winged miniature.

France makes an effort to stand, albeit reluctantly, so that he is positioned face to featureless face with the closest of the creatures. England smiles broadly, allowing one of them to rest on his finger. Rather nauseating.

"Are you observing us so fixatedly for a reason?" France inquires of the intruders, snidely. He has never been particularly tolerant of England's obsession with the occult, with the fair folk – in short, with the supernatural. True, he is willing to accept the premise that magic may alter the consciousness (at this moment, how could he not?) but to tolerate the presence of illusory _fairies_ stretches his patience with England's self-absorbed folly to the utmost limits.

They twitter, weaving around him in slow, hypnotic circles.

_There is a trial for your completion._

In that odd, headache-inducing way that is customary to this setting, their voices echo directly in France's head, as though they are not just mere sound, but a physical, invasive force. The sprites themselves remain passive, heads tilted quizzically to the side.

"A trial?" says France, his lip half curled in an elegant sneer. "To what end?"

_We shall grant you your greatest desire._

France drapes a confident arm on England's shoulder, using him as a prop on which to casually lean – the latter scowls quietly, presumably at his impertinence. "I am a _nation,_" says France. "Save perhaps the lingering hope of world domination– and even that has the tendency to fade over time - I possess no greatest desires."

The fairies hiss in indignation.

"I could settle for a passing whim," France amends, diplomatically. "I have plenty of those."

Cue pacified murmurs from the easily offended crowd, still circling him, dizzyingly.

England steps adroitly out of the way, causing France to lose his balance, stumble and curse. "The challenge is accepted," England says, in that imposing, decorous manner of his - steadfastly ignoring the indignant splutters from behind him. Or, more likely, silently relishing in them.

"_Angleterre, _I hope this is not just bluster," France whispers to him, after regaining his balance (and composure). "Why, pray tell, are you wasting valuable searching time on whimsy?" He pauses. Realises. Sighs. "Is it so impossible for you to resist a challenge?"

"_You _are the one who will act as the challenger," England hisses back. "You have, after all, dubbed yourself champion of my... of God knows what. Who. It is only right that _you _should..."

"Hold on - you accepted on _my _behalf -?"

England elbows him sharply in the stomach. France winces, buts takes the message and falls silent.

_The challenge has been accepted. _The words are repeated hurriedly amongst the fairies, in a flurry of excitement.

"Only under extreme duress," mutters France, glaring at England, who repays him with the most neutral of neutral faces, decked with the subtle ornament of a microscopic smile. Which is, naturally, quite infuriating.

What is perhaps most worrying about _that _is how this indicates that he no longer wishes to viciously destroy France. No, like the real England, he simply wants to toy with him, to win spectacularly in their elaborate – and occasionally quite amicable – game of emotional cards. And, yes, quite how they shifted from the _battlefield _to _cards _is beyond him; but there you have it – the dynamic between them has never been static. England seems alternately appalled by France's temerity; attracted by his tenacity; business as usual, that, from which stems a whole collection of new misgivings. Least of all that, barely hours ago, this man stabbed him – now, somehow they have progressed with all the speed of a deadly car crash into friendly banter. How... English. English; this entire _mind _is, undeniably, inescapably, (logically) _English._ France gives a small shiver of annoyance. Banter is the product of a relationship more intricate than pure enmity – and France does not want that degree of intimacy with this trickster, who is not England, but an expression of England at his most serpent-like.

Upon considering this, his attention snaps back to the present moment, as savage swirls of violet smoke, covering a space no larger than his hand, tear through the air before him. The shadow fairies circle. It seems to draw the heat in from around them, concentrating it into one small mass of writhing purple. Gradually, the smoke gains substance and shape, melting into the form of a flower. The colours rage, then settle: a purple lily, streaked with flickering tongues of red.

_Take it._

France refuses to move. England seizes the plant for him, tucking it roughly into the collar of France's robes.

"A rose would have been more appropriate, no?" chuckles France – the levity marred by some trepidation. This is shaping into an experience both useless and unsettling.

_Keep it alive. _

"What?"

_Do not let the flower die. _

Uncertainly, France brushes a protective hand over the delicate lily. England nods, in approval.

_The trial begins._

The trial begins! The fairies spark with perceptible excitement. With a collective sigh, the light dims, as though extinguished by a hundred tiny wisps of breath. France is duly plunged into darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Update! Yay!**

**In which we learn that trials are essentially the sum of the one who sets them. **

**(Let's play spot the subtle Tom Stoppard reference towards the end! Also, Shelley. Lots of Shelley. But that's fairly blatant, if you've ever read **_**Prometheus Unbound.**_**)**

* * *

Silence abounds, for at least a handful of moments. France briefly savours it (though he knows England is still present; he can feel him at his shoulder). For a second, he strives to lose himself in this darkness, to snatch at an instant of sanctuary, before the trial commences – but, bowing before necessity, he concedes that such a lull will only eat away at the edges his resolve. Reluctantly, he drags his thoughts away from the glimmer of rest to which they tended, and frog-marches them towards the concept of action. This occurs in time for him to glimpse a flicker of light: white, bordered with the softest pink, a pinpoint in the distance. It blinks away, then returns, dimmer than before – France almost wonders if he has imagined it, but then, if he _is _imagining it, it exists here.

(How much of this setting is a product of England's imagination, and how much of it is France's? Up until now, he was inclined to believe all of the former and none of the latter, but – well – how much power does he genuinely possess here?)

"Come on!" says France, angrily, pulling England forward, to follow the flickering lamp. They are still in the rainforest – are they not? Yes – he can still hear the rustle of leaves and a scattering of subdued birdsong: once hopeful; now inescapably sinister.

"You want to follow it?" England grabs him by the shoulder, with a frosty, vicelike grip. Ah. It seems, for all his sociability of before, this England's newfound tameness vanished with the light. "That's a will-o-wisp, idiot. _Ignis fatuus. _Fool's fire!"

"And you have a better idea?" snaps France, who cannot quite recall what a will-o-wisp _does, _if he is honest. Clearly something vaguely sneaky; what does it matter when there is nothing else on which to rely? This is an ignorance that he will not, of course, share with England, should his life depend on it. Sometimes, reflects France, pride _must _take precedence.

Accordingly, they chase after the light (as England mutters bitterly under his breath about foolhardy egotists), stumbling over gnarled tree roots and twisted pieces of undergrowth, ducking under overhanging vines. Their progress is laboured and unwieldy – and always, the will-o-wisp blinks from afar, never drawing nearer: occasionally, if anything, receding, but never nearer. Damn it all. It seems an emblem of this venture's futility.

"Pursuing a treacherous mirage," muses England, with a spiteful edge to his wistfulness. "How symbolic."

_That _again. _That _is honestly too perplexing to consider, for now.

France pauses for breath, momentarily defeated. "So what _do _you propose we...?" He is too exhausted even to sound accusing – the question is genuine, albeit unintentionally so.

"We simply walk. Allow your trial to find _us_."

Passivity. Always such an intelligent course of action.

Much as it pains him to concur, France lacks the energy and incentive to argue. "Agreed," he breathes. He takes a few slow steps forward.

And, with a heavy splash, promptly slips into a deep swamp.

France is fed up of falling, of being flung into gloom and ignorance – above all, of _water, _particularly the putrid liquid in which he is now submerged. He is acutely aware of something brushing against his feet – some half-rotten aquatic plant, no doubt; ordinarily this would prove that the swamp is not deep, but some foreboding intuition (combined with previous experience) informs France that it must go down for fathoms. This is, after all, _England's _mind, which, say all you will, could never be classified as shallow.

France struggles, kicks furiously, forces his head above the surface, inhaling in great gulps that are half air, half water. Wheezing, spluttering, he chokes out a strangled yell, attracting England. The heavy water seems to cling to him, dragging him inexorably downwards, and he soon succumbs to its pull, allowing his head to sink beneath the surface once more. Yet he feels a hand from above clutch loosely at his: England. Their fingers briefly collide, but France fails to cling on, thus losing his one unreliable lifeline. With nothing to arrest the motion, he descends.

After a few seconds of panicked turmoil, in which he can no longer gauge direction or depth, he abruptly reaches the conclusion that he is no longer sinking, but moving steadily forwards, as though tugged along by the current of a stream. Indeed, the murky water seems thinner, tastes – thankfully – fresher, no longer a swamp, but a river. The current has taken hold; he now travels decisively away from where he and England were standing. His head surfaces intermittently – another small blessing – but vision is a virtual impossibility, as all is unfathomably dim. He catches no glimpse of England's face – even the will-o-wisp is out of sight. Yet he is bound for a firm destination – _where_ is anyone's guess. Cursed fairies.

If his blinded senses are to be trusted, the river is widening, gaining in depth and pace. He is just able to roll over so that his head faces upwards, allowing him to breathe constantly. However, he is barely given time to enjoy it, as his journey reaches and end, and suddenly he is - falling – spiralling – soaring through the endless air...

Just what he abhors about this absurd quest – the – the invariable _freefall..._

Helpless as a sparrow in a whirlwind, eyes squeezed adamantly shut, he drops, skimming the edge of a tremendous waterfall.

He drops for at least twenty seconds before wondering what happened to the part where he hits the ground. Dreading it, he braces himself for an impact which never occurs. Opening his eyes, he finds that the waterfall has vanished – as much as it was ever there at all – and in its place are clouds: great, glaring patches of pure _whiteness _that cause his traumatised eyes to ache.

And, slowly decelerating, he comes to a halt. Floating on air? It seems that way initially, yet, upon further observation, the ground beneath his feet is solid. The clouds disperse a little, and he is able to confirm that, yes, he is standing on firm rock, not air.

The clouds gradually blow away, leaving but a few clinging traces of vapour, clearing his line of vision.

He stands at the peak of a colossal mountain. Sprawled below is an immense panorama, littered with verdant forests in miniature, and gleaming lakes resembling scattered puddles. A million different shades of nature greet him from afar, in hues of emerald, turquoise, umber - even streaks of vermilion across raw, dry patches of grassless land. All vibrant, almost garish, but so distant, and rendered indistinct by sheer distance. Dark birds fly in V-formation, like so much scattered dirt on the pale horizon.

Overwhelmed, France takes a few dizzy steps backwards, until his back meets a slab of rock that stands a little higher than he does. A dry sprig of a plant that sprouts from a crack in the boulder tickles his neck.

He has never been... overly _fond_ of heights, precisely.

One of the birds flies apart from the rest in the formation; it travels towards the mountain, and France. As it approaches, proving itself to be larger than any fowl has a right to be, he reassesses his first impression: not a bird, then, but a winged – figure – a winged man – no, a winged _England_; well, of course.

This England is new. Superficially, he is similar to the other variants – excepting the snowy plumage that adorns his shoulder blades. Yet his eyes are not green, not even icy blue or pure white, but a narrow, glittering gold. He wears a tunic that blends with the sky, and his face display a look that is typically _Angleterre_: purposeful and stoic, as though utterly resolved to perform a truly distasteful task. He carries a battered satchel over one shoulder.

With a showy flutter of his wings, he lands, face to face with France, who meets him with a calm, unblinking gaze. Eye contact is maintained for some time, each scrutinising the unrevealing expression of the other.

England takes the lead in breaking the silence. "I do not want to do this," he says, seemingly sincere.

"Then don't," says France. He has not the slightest idea what England is referring to, but suspects that this is a case where knowledge is not compulsory for objection.

"I must," he says, firmly.

Rapidly, he lunges forward, knocking France painfully against the rock and pinning him there with the steely force of two hands. The impact sends a rapid jolt of pain from his scalp to the back of his teeth, overwhelming the senses.

"_Angleterre_!" He tries to wrench his wrists from England's grasp, but they are held fast with preternatural strength.

A tinkling clatter comes from the other side of the rock slab. France observes in horror as multitudinous chains snake out from behind the rock of their own accord, slithering across him, melding together until he is somehow bound there. His fervent attempts to struggle free are quelled by the merciless winged England, who holds him in place until he is adequately chained and consequently immobile.

Slowly, England's grip relaxes.

"Who told you that you had to do this_?_" breathes France, stunned. "And why? What kind of trial...?"

It is on the tip of his tongue to add something to the tune of '_far be it from me to criticise your apparent penchant for bondage, Angleterre, but surely now is neither the time nor the place?' _He swallows the quip, recognising that, well, it is neither the time nor place; humour will hardly ameliorate the situation. Particularly as these England replicas tend to be so humourless.

That, and merciless.

England simply shakes his head, regretfully. He lets go of his captive, and rummages in the satchel: inside are a hammer, and a handful of gleaming nails.

"No," says France, flatly.

"I am afraid so," he says. He seizes France's left arm again and holds it high up against the rock.

"No! _Angleterre! _For God's sake, _why_?"

"God?" says England, genuinely puzzled.

France hisses an irritated sigh. "Figure of speech. You know I do not believe in God and I haven't since the Enlightenment – _Angleterre, _you know _me. _What product of your diseased mind informed you that you must _nail_ me to a _rock_? I would quite like to know!"

England ignores him, instead focussing on positioning the first nail, right against the purple vein of France's trembling wrist.

"Please stop," says France, keeping his voice as level as possible.

"I cannot."

"Stop! Rebel, damn it!" _I know you always could, when you wanted._

England meets his eyes again, mild and apologetic. France fixes him with a burning stare. It continues to accuse even as he begins to scream, as hammer meets nail meets flesh.

Every blow sends a fresh cascade of agony through his arm, as though it is pain which replaces the blood in his veins as it spills from the wound. France bites his lip, until the taste of blood makes him nauseous. Shock ripples through him at every blow; his heart seems the epicentre of it all, pounding with such vehemence he fears it will burst.

He longs to lose control, to lose consciousness or perhaps sanity – but that will not help, as the pain will continue to course through him, or rest beside him like some macabre bedfellow. Oh, he has faced much worse in the past, but that does not help in terms of _here _and _now..._

Mercifully, it is quick, owing to England's strength. When it is over, and both France's wrists are duly nailed to the rock, he flies away without a moment's hesitation.

No, in all fairness there was perhaps a second of hesitation. France was simply a little too preoccupied to notice it, what with the minor distraction of _nails being rammed into his flesh._

He laughs long and loud at his own mockery because, really, what else can one do, when bound helplessly to a mountain?

Hours pass. He thinks, at least. It is difficult to keep track; his mind flickers in and out of consciousness along with his vision. Yet slowly, the blank periods grow fewer in number, and he begins to regain some semblance of normality. It takes a great deal to permanently disorientate a nation.

He cannot shake off the idea that something happened, during one of the blank periods... some odd flash of... of what, exactly?

The perplexing thought tugs at the corner of his brain, but refuses to show its face.

The next time a bird breaks away from the flock on the horizon, he readies himself for England's return, composing a thousand extremely persuasive reasons in his head of why he ought to be unchained, and prepares his most soulful and wounded of glances. That he can manage to express said glance whilst in the throes of agony is testament to a stoicism borne of centuries worth of brutal warfare - in addition to his more recent experiences. At this point, he considers himself an expert in facing torture. The key is to remember that nothing here is real: pain is a product of his mind; it always has been, but in the present circumstances, even more so.

But, _dieu, _it hurts.

The winged guest turns out not to be England, but an enormous eagle. It spreads its wings out before him, and advances, beak glinting sharp in the sunlight.

An... eagle. Oh hell.

"_Merde, Angleterre,_" murmurs France, in exhausted wonder. With supreme reluctance, he prepares to play Prometheus.

* * *

Canada kneels in the corner of the room, knees tucked against his chest for warmth. He assumed this position hours ago, and it has reached the point where he fears that the fragile film of tranquillity which seems to have stretched over and coated this room will break should he move.

But the cold is distracting and he needs to _think. _

_To hell with it_, he decides. _They haven't stirred for half the night; they aren't likely to wake in the minute it will take me to fetch a blanket_.

So he dashes up the wooden, creaking steps, out of the cellar and into the kitchen. Hurriedly, as though pursued, he yanks a thick blanket out of England's clean laundry basket. On impulse, he ransacks the cupboards for food; clutching a tin of shortbread, two apples and a chunk of cheese, he rushes downstairs again, his stomping footsteps echoing wildly against the walls.

Guiltily, he settles, cocooning himself in the blanket, almost fearful that he has disturbed the two slumbering Nations.

Which, of course, he hasn't. They show no sign of it, at any rate.

The impromptu trip upstairs has helped clear his head, as does the food. Enough so that a thought unexpectedly strikes him.

There is nothing more arcane or uncharted than the realms of a Nation's subconscious. Having existed for thousands of years, the world holds little in the way of mystery for England – novelty of experience, certainly, but there remains so little to be discovered. Like a room filled with masterpiece paintings: intricate, unique, full of undiscovered nuance... but unveiled.

Having exhausted this world of conquests, has he now set out to map the dark recesses of his own mind?

It is an utterly ridiculous idea, which makes it all the more likely that it was England's intention.

_France, _thinks Canada. _Would you please hurry up already and save him from himself?_

* * *

One would imagine that having one's liver eaten by an eagle every morning would eventually grow repetitive. Logically enough, thinks France, one would be absolutely correct. An excruciating wrenching, piercing – the savage tilt of the shadow bird's beak, face drenched in his own gore and losing the capacity to shape thought with every brutal twist and tear; the pain, he is almost growing accustomed to.

The boredom... is another story altogether.

So when England returns, with an army of winged shadow spirits by his side, it is a genuine relief.

But before; something happened _before_ that...

... Ah, it is no use – the days have blurred into one congealed mass – colour that once had clarity have faded to...

Colours.

The flower.

Straining his head to catch a glimpse of the collar of his shirt, he cannot spot the lily he was ordered to protect. Which is hardly inexplicable – it must have fallen off when he was...

Falling...

"Wake up," says the winged England, whose attire is a mockery of what Greece used to wear. His voice, though not rough precisely, pierces painfully through the haze of France's dozing thoughts.

More lucid now, he furiously searches his memory, straining to recollect what happened, just recently, to do with the flower –

"Again, I apologise for being obliged to do this."

France shakes his head, blearily. "What, _pray tell, _did I steal, to merit such a punishment? What was my fire?" He makes a hoarse attempt at a laugh. "Or is this my trial?"

The flower! Last night, when the sky was clear, and the moon was full, and he was limp from pain, he remembered it. And when he turned to see if it was still there, it _was. _It had shrivelled, and faded to a dirty kind of mauve, with streaks of red, the colour of dried blood (or maybe it _was _his blood – not impossible.). And when he sighed, a wisp of breath was all it took to cause the fragile remains to flutter to the floor.

And when it touched the floor, it burst into a flare of purple light. Light the shape of wings, which, once unfolded, brushed the top of the sky with momentary brilliance, before dissolving into nothingness.

And then, he forgot...

"I have brought the Furies," says England.

France surveys the ranks of winged silhouettes, whose slender fingers are adorned with long talons. They peer mutely back. "They're nothing but shadow spirits," he scoffs. "All bark and no bite... to coin a cliché." The plosive syllables resound in his chest, and ache. Yet with the reappearance of that forgotten memory, he feels his strength seeping back; for the fourth, maybe fifth time, the wound in his abdomen has more or less healed, his liver regenerated from where the eagle tore it... honestly, it does not bear thinking about. Nonetheless - healing is good.

England simply throws him a sorrowful look. He shrugs, and retreats, the muffled beat of his wings softly receding, as he flies away, vanishing into the distance.

The Furies advance.

_We tell you a story you know, too well, too well...torturous truths..._

"What?" says France, disdainfully. "You seek to shame me? Bombard me remorselessly with tales of the past? If they fail to torture me _now_, a reminder will hardly serve to intensify the guilt." He rests his head back, as far as the chains will allow, preparing to view their mediocre spectacle.

_House against house. Protestant against Catholic. A nation torn in pieces of its own volition. Massacres, piling atop one another. Bodies, in flames. Turmoil. Panic. Despair. _

The corresponding scenes flicker before his eyes – various snatches from his memory, only intensified. "The wars of religion? A troubling time, I'll admit." And yet – and yet they do not torment overmuch.

_Shackles, chains and confinement. Speaking is dangerous. Thinking suicide. Rebellion... an atrocity. Glimmers of hope, which fade into silence, muffled by the clamour of church bells. Swathed in white velvet, you overlook how the finery chokes you. You struggle for breath, and wonder if it has always been this way and, if so, how one is to survive. _

Again, images from the past are thrown at him – yet they are hideously one-sided, out of context. The Furies have taken and altered them: skies are darker; sounds are harsher; bloodstains more vivid. All very showy, but nothing like the mental anguish one would expect.

"Under the Bourbons, yes. Prattle on then, parrots! Inform me of my own history; I am sure you imagine this is useful," France spits.

_Liberty! Dizzy, miraculous – fleeting. Gone in an instant, ushered to the corner of history, where it sits, subdued, in its stifled tumbrel, dreading the slice of the inevitable blade. Desperation. See how the blood trickles; memorise its flow and numb yourself, for it will carry you away, and you must be resolute. For an all-too-brief second, you shaped utopia; a slip of the thumb, a flick of the craft knife: behold! A monster from the ruins of your workmanship. _

"We were all monsters, every one of us, in our turn. If not, we were prey. There is not a Nation alive today who hasn't succumbed to an ideal, and seen it twist out of control – not a single one who has not witnessed bloodshed... perhaps conducted a massacre or two!" He says this to incense them, more than anything. Here they promise torture, and all they can manage are grotesque pictures from a lurid past, barely his own. The Furies claw at his face with their insubstantial talons.

_The rotten fruit collapses in on itself. Mechanical murder – exposed and condemned. Vision, red-tinged, fades back to what it was before. French against French against French. Seething streets, broken carriage wheels; seething minds, broken necks. _

"What is this – a _caricature _of my life?" Nothing is ever so clear cut.

_Then – madness in a flare of glory! Decadence and selfishness cultivated until they know no bounds. Europe enslaved by the one who once fought tyrants. _

"Yes, I _know _the rest, you fools!" shouts France, all pain forgotten in sheer umbrage. "But what does it signify? Wars, struggle, brutality, suffering - meaning what? Is there a pattern I am supposed to see? Something wrong with this picture? No. More likely, you are petulant shades, seeking to imitate the throes of my conscience and succeeding only in being repetitive and somniferous."

The Furies continue to speak, recounting the atrocities of his past, relishing in missed chances, corrupted hopes and sorrowful failings. They move on to Haiti, to both world wars – and perhaps to other modern events; France scarcely listens. England, it appears, long since lost the power to seriously torment him.

Mid sentence, the Furies squawk; their ranks split as they scatter hurriedly in different directions, to make way for something that travels fast behind them.

It is a purple carriage: large, opulent and horseless, hovering in the air. It moves swiftly, though nothing tangible seems to pull it. Seated imperiously in the front, clinging onto the useless reins, is its driver: blue-skinned, pale-robed and triumphant.

_Well._

"England!" cries France, greeting his guide: fellow traveller, the haughty child of ice.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Hey guys! So, have another instalment of France and England's Dubious Metaphysical Adventures, Containing Much Ambiguous Symbolism and Even More Blatant Homoeroticism! Hopefully this chapter will answer some of your questions... and, of course, leave some new ones in their place. Muahaha! (OK, Life: breathe in; breathe out; remind yourself that all power corrupts...)**

**Anyway, I don't want to give any more spoilers, except that the latter half of this chapter might be the most integral to the plot... thus far. Enjoy! :)**

**(By the way, fun fact for those who are interested: Asia is Prometheus' lover in _Prometheus Unbound, _whilst, as most of you probably know, Hercules is the one who unchains him.)****

* * *

**

"Yes, the names of Nations are sullied by the association with tyrants, haunted by the shadows of multitudinous murders," admits the ice England, gravely, addressing the Furies. "Yes, the cost of progress has been perhaps too dear. Yet to make amends, what would you have them do? Wallow in remorse? Blink out of existence? Remembrance aids understanding and empathy, but grief is not penance. _You_ would have them stop in their tracks, weighed down by the history of their crimes – _I _would have them run forwards with all their might, into newer dreams. Pity oppression long past, mourn the alienation still very much present, if not more so than before – but transform it to strength. They were all monsters at some time or other. But that is so easy to say; in reality, there is no such thing as a monster, for good will always accompany bad, and vice versa. They must not halt, but ascend. Only through cooperation is atonement possible."

The Furies twist and writhe at his words. Under England's steady, disdainful watch, they gradually falter, and begin to wither away into dull spirals of smoke. He sniffs, dispassionately. Their screams take longer to recede, but gradually a reassuring silence triumphs over the unsettling yells.

England steers the carriage smoothly to the ground. He jumps out, lightly and approaches France, stopping maybe a metre short of him.

"Impressive," says France, rather shaken. "Yet you forgot to say 'we' instead of 'they'." He takes a shuddering breath. "How did you find me?"

England narrows his eyes, as though suspecting a trick. "You sent up a flare, did you not?"

France considers this, and to save time, nods. "Right. Well, _Angleterre, _if it is not too much to ask, would you mind unchaining me?" The air around them has grown uncomfortably cold. Without the presence of the Furies, he is held fast by a calm that is almost oppressive. And he is weary – exceptionally so – but can keep that sense at bay for now, like peering behind a screen.

England blinks, with perfectly emulated surprise. "Do what now?"

"_Angleterre,_" growls France, almost unintelligibly.

The obvious hilarity of the situation (France grits his teeth) overcomes England, and he gives in to a wide, unpleasant smirk.

"Don't you _dare _toy with me, you little brat –" France begins.

And suddenly, they are surrounded by fairies.

_Good grief, _thinks France. _In isolation, that last thought would sound too ridiculous for words to express. _

Come to think of it, even in context, it is hardly the epitome of sense.

The wretched creatures twitter, in seeming interest, at France's predicament. As is their custom, they dance and dart around him, almost playfully. Yet their prognosis is irredeemably bleak:

_You have failed the trial. _

France raises a thin, incredulous eyebrow. "Oh, come now," he says, mildly. "Surely you are not going to suggest that I did not succeed because I allowed a _flower _to expire? Well. Disintegrate, anyway." A trickle of blood drips conspicuously from his wrist, which is, to his mind, rather embarrassing.

England rolls his eyes, impatiently. "Idiot. The flower was an irrelevancy. A slightly _whimsical _–" a sly glance directed at him here "- ornament, no more. No – they are referring to the systematic way in which you botched virtually everything else."

France gives a strangled sound of disbelief. "Here I am, pinned helplessly to a rock feature, dripping with blood and a not inconsiderable amount of gore, like some Shelleyan nightmare, with absolutely nothing to alleviate the relentless _tedium _of it all save one brief, pitiful freak show – and you say this is not trial enough?" His voice rises towards the end of this little diatribe. Something to do with the restricted opportunities for respiration that this position allows.

"Oh, the trial was sufficient," says England. He smiles, bright and brisk. "It was _you _who failed to live up to standards."

"_Merci du complement, Angleterre,_" says France, sardonically. "Still dripping gore here, by the way."

"I realise," he says, cheerfully. France narrows his eyes; England responds with a jaunty quirk of those ridiculous eyebrows.

_Your greatest desire shall not be granted._

"Passing whim," France corrects. The fairies titter, complacently. Well. Lovely to know that _some _people here are endowed with a sense of humour. "Would it be impertinent to question what my _task _was supposed to be?" He pauses; no answer is immediately supplied. "Some kind of anagnorisis as the finale of a tawdry tragic farce, I suppose. I hate to disappoint, but it takes more than brute force to trigger an epiphany. Would it be asking too much to request that somebody let me _down_?" No joke; he really is becoming quite breathless – much as he strives to hide it. He hopes that the eagle has been detained.

_Struggle was an integral part of the test._

"I realise," says France, darkly. "Struggle without purpose or end, no less. All this smacks of inept improvisation."

This provokes angry hisses from the supernatural crowd. The sky darkens.

"Exactly what I would expect of England's minions," he mutters – to weary for subtlety, but willing to give antagonism a try.

The affronted jeers intensify. Ah, it is far too tempting to infuriate these touchy, preposterous creatures! Their dancing takes a turn for the frenzied; they writhe and point, like accusatory streaks of fire.

_You drown in your own egotism; you are eroded by your own arrogance! The scorn you exhibit shall be revisited upon you, multiplied tenfold! Still clutching the gnarled prop of twisted pride; pathetic, bathing in the shadow, the pretence, of your own superiority...!_

France raises his eyebrows, pensively. "Perhaps," he murmurs, eliciting visceral screams of frustration.

Sparks fly from the black hollow where their eyes should be. Above them, a storm cloud seethes, on the brink of explosion. It shades the atmosphere a dingy, ominous purple-brown, as the first fork of lightening stabs the land.

A flash of hateful white fire, and the fairies vanish, much like the Furies, as though summoned by some vengeful, higher power.

England looks at France, as the raindrops begin to fall. "I concur," he comments, after a moment's thought.

France's mouth thins into a grim smile. "Now, if you would be so kind as to _release me from these agonising confines_? If it is not too much trouble?" He winces, involuntarily. "Or do you wish to gloat a little longer?"

England gives this request due consideration. "A few moments more," he decides. "It would have been easier if you had succeeded," he adds, conversationally.

"Apologies for the... _inconvenience,_" says France, astringent in between pained little breaths. "Any... clue as to what it would have entailed?"

England tilts his head to the side, in a thoughtful, birdlike manner, as the sound of thunder wells up around them. "I suppose the traditional requirement was pity."

"In Shelley."

"In Shelley," he agrees.

After a pause for reflection, during which he seems to freeze in motion, England moves forward to help France. He blasts the chains with a concentrated jet of ice, shattering them instantly (and accidently-on-purpose catching parts of France's skin in the process).

"Does this make you... Hercules?" asks France, wryly.

"Tch."

"Mmm, I think not, also." He bites his lip, slyly. "Asia?" He is greeted with a withering glance. "Argh!" France inhales, sharply, in shock – oblivious as to why, only aware of a sharp pain. For a moment, the world seems to tilt drunkenly, before gradually settling back to its accustomed axis.

"Did you expect my wrenching a nail out of your wrist to be painless? Pathetic." England rolls his eyes again. Sure enough, though, France's right arm drops like lead. He bites down hard on his own tongue to avoid yelling; he will _not _give England one iota of satisfaction more than he already has done.

Except...

He failed the trial because he failed to lose. In rejecting defeat, he was... defeated. The Prometheus play was a sham, cobbled together; an attempt to wrench some remorse out of a remorseless idol. An endeavour to snatch defeat from an undefeated foe, by cheap emotional parlour tricks. Stemming from either ignorance or dread; both plausible enough.

"Bloody he-argh!"

"There," says England, calmly, tossing the second blood-smeared nail aside. It pings lightly on the brittle rock. "All done." He catches France neatly, as the latter collapses limply, liberated. France shudders in his arms, resting a reluctant but powerless head on his shoulder, semi-automatically.

"_M-merci. _As always, here I am, helpless before you," breathes France, hardly aware of what he is saying. His hair falls delicately on England's neck – or is it England's hair on his... never mind. "You keep... saving me. Uncharacteristic, that." Wait. Something wrong with that observation. Ah yes: "You're not England," he adds. "Inasmuch as someone's creation is not them_. Merde. _That made very little sense. _You _make very little sense. Annoying, that. Not overly so. Just enough to be... don't listen to me; I'm exhausted and I think I may just fall unconscious right now. Don't drop me."

England drops him.

"That was predictable," whispers France, curling up into a defensive position, with his knees drawn protectively against his chest, drawing a great deal of wet dirt around him in the process.

"Get up," says England, annoyed. He prods France gently with a pointed toe.

Who whimpers, grouchily. "Make me." France delights in being petulant. He imagines he has earned the right.

"I shall not answer that asinine comment." England sighs, gustily – though without much malice. He even crouches down next to France, idly tracing an uneven circle on the drenched rock with a cerulean hand. "You spend an awful lot of time resting."

"Mmm. I spend an awful lot of time being assaulted and tortured here, is why." France yawns.

A pause.

"It is raining," observes England. "Quite badly."

"I find I sleep well in the rain," says France, unfazed.

Yet another pause, in which frustration mingles with a certain hesitancy.

"You have to –"

"Where do we go from here?" says France, interrupting. He rolls onto his side, to face England. "There was a sense of finality to this scene, do you not agree? Earlier, I embarked on a quest, and came within breathing distance of what I was searching for, but it flew away before I could unshackle... no, that's not right; there _was_ no shackle if he could escape..." he trails off, confused. England waits patiently for him to reach out in the dark, and salvage the thread of conversation. "... No matter," he decides. "Having lost it – him – I began a trial, withstood all, and in doing so, failed. Twice, I lost or failed. What remains to be done? Are there more losses to be sustained? If so, duty calls. I suppose. Command me, _Angleterre_! What are we to do next? I confess, I must not be at the height of lucidity, for I am asking _you _what to do. (You who I persist in calling _Angleterre, _despite...) Well? What is to follow?" He props up his head with his hand, in an insolent gesture.

England shifts, so he is sitting with his legs sprawled messily in front of him. It is beautifully casual, and makes a wonderful change from his customary proud, upright posture. France is inclined to tell him so, but mercifully refrains, from weariness.

Oh, and also, he is waiting for an answer.

"We climb to the bottom of the mountain," decides England, eventually. "Return to the rainforest. Find the fairies, beg their pardon, and ask for another trial."

"To what _end_?" says France, vehemently. "What can they do for me?"

England bristles. "They have extraordinary power." France scoffs. He suspects that England has forgotten why he was so insistent to begin with. Besides, this trial had little to do with his purpose – and everything to do with England wishing to tame him. Like an oyster, working to transform an irritating piece of grit into a pearl. France does not wish to be categorised as either; he rejected England's distinctions before, and will not pander to them now.

"I would rather rest," declares France. He looks down, suddenly depressed. "I have virtually given up hope on finding him. All else is irrelevant. I have no intention of proving myself to _you_, in some ill-defined challenge skewed towards your numerous misunderstandings." He looks up boldly at England.

England blinks. "Misunderstandings?"

"Well," says France, slow and deliberate. "For one thing, I am far more suited to _Don Juan _than I ever was to _Prometheus Unbound._"

The sound of this England's laughter is quite possibly the strangest thing to hear on a stormy night atop a mountain, amidst swirling clouds and intermittent bursts of thunder. Or, indeed, thinks France, anywhere.

"All right," says England, the mirth fading warmly from his face. "All right. We'll move on."

"Where to, _mon cher pilote_?"

"Your _what_?" England furrows his brow, as though anticipating an insult or trick.

"Guide. My guide." Was that _cher _sweet, automatic, or ironic? France wonders if either of them could say. He wonders if this copy of England knows any French whatsoever. As it is, he has always suspected England himself of being perfectly fluent, despite his disdain to use the language at all. The old debate: how much of their ignorance towards each other is feigned? Centuries of acquaintance and enmity would suggest either all of it, or none of it; any other stance is insupportable. Misunderstandings between them must either be total and irrevocable, or completely fabricated.

... Irrevocable? Too pessimistic, perhaps? Oh, maybe.

But this has little to do with the – clone – kneeling beside him, does it?

France brushes a strand of hair from his face, and flinches when he feels a sticky wetness on his cheek. Blood from his wrists – of course. Staining those already crimson robes that appear to have regenerated from their tatters, along with his wounds. The permanence of the physical when contained in the incorporeal! Or... something of the sort. He lifts his head. "Go on. Command me." A half smile, challenging.

"Well," says England, somewhat uncertainly. "Then it is time to go."

"Go _where_."

England chuckles – yes, genuinely chuckles – in mild approbation of France's scepticism. Veiled as submission, no less. "Do you honestly imagine I know where we are going to next? I have no control over where I lead you." France sits up, puzzled. "How could it be otherwise?"

Well.

"Then who _does _control it?" France had always assumed – well. That this had nothing to do with his _own _mind. He had always entertained the vague notion that it was England's malice alone which fuelled this experience.

England gives an exaggerated shrug. "Some sort of shared consciousness in the centre of it all, I'd imagine."

He moves so that he is facing opposite France and takes him gently by the hands. Unaccustomed to such an absence of harshness, France shivers, as the surroundings melt around them, kaleidoscopic, and resettle into yet another scene.

* * *

When the next view fades into being, France is assaulted by an overwhelming surge of familiarity. They are back in the long, silent dream-hall during which he found and lost the England from the centre of the iceberg.

This is one of those moments where one returns to a scene – where previously a momentous event took place – and, upon that return, the atmosphere is somehow dissimilar. Corners are sharper; surroundings less idealised. Perhaps it has lost a certain aura, and gained a familiarity of sorts. Nearly everything is present from before: the dark, medieval arches of the open room; the opulent carpet; the stained glass, showing snatches of his experience here, amidst other, unfamiliar depictions. The silence, however, is not. Instead, there plays fragile, eerie music: a haunting, throbbing melody, with searing harmonies, like intricate spiders' webs, framed by a dolorous, syncopated drum. It has no obvious source – France imagines that it is a product of the dust-saturated air which surrounds them.

Nor is the hall empty. Its chambers are now thronged by dancers – shadow dancers. They twirl expertly to the complex rhythms, like particularly graceful marionettes. Dark, flowing dresses and archaic dress suits. Each stares blankly at the face of their partner. They pay no attention to England or France. Each wears a brightly painted mask, decorated with multi-faceted glass beads which twinkle in the light, and shimmering, metallic ostrich feathers.

"Ironic," breathes France. "The shadow spirits have no faces to hide."

"That is only one motive for concealment," answers England, softly.

"I was here before," says France, in a level, quiet tone.

"I suppose this is the shadow of the experience."

"_How pregnant sometimes his replies are!_" France quotes, with mocking mischief.

"Hilarious," says England, flatly.

They watch the dancers spin: wild, rapid, always on the verge of teetering out of control, but somehow remaining perfectly balanced. The very essence of simulated humanity.

"No need to stand here like wallflowers," smiles France, eventually. "Dance with me?"

England looks nonplussed. He makes no reply. Laughing at his uncertainty, France kneels before him in an elaborate, courtly bow, plucked from a previous, more stilted century.

England blinks at him. "What are you doing."

"Dance with me!" repeats France; more insistent, less of a request. He rises, and with a flourish, extends and elegant hand. The scars which grace his fingertips gleam brightly in the dimmed light which filters through the coloured glass of the windows.

England flushes, pink under deep blue; France chooses to interpret this as assent. He scoops England into a ballroom hold – which harks back to many memories of the Regency period, during which he was wont to haul an equally reluctant England to dance at numerous parties, scandalising all present with delight – and propels him into a waltz.

The beat is irregular and difficult to handle, but France prides himself in being able to achieve some semblance of grace amidst the shadow dancers – despite how he is essentially carrying England with him, rather than letting him move of his own accord (mostly because, if left to his own devices, he would not). His hesitant partner manages to look both disgruntled and afraid. France pauses, allowing him time to collect himself.

England settles a tentative hand on his shoulder, and lets the other relax in France's.

"Better," smiles France, and leads him to dance once more.

"And, this, I suppose, constitutes a productive use of time?" snaps England, cutting through the ethereal music.

"Yes," says France, adamantly.

"Frivolous..." mutters England.

"Completely," agrees France, seriously. And smiles.

And they dance. Like the mirror image of a sword fight: compatriots doing the rites of fighters; fighters going through lovers' motions. They spin in an isolated whirl, seemingly separate from the other figures, yet desperately avoiding the inevitable line of each others' eyes, focussing on the dust-speckled air behind each others' shoulders instead. They turn almost blindly, their separate gazes demurely averted from each other.

France decides that enough is enough; deliberately, he lifts his eyes towards England's; he feels the other stumble as a result. Blue meets unnatural blue. England's shine with that cold, white hue; as though winter has crusted over the forests within them. Little flecks of turquoise decorate the irises, like fissures.

France may be wrong, but he thinks the two of them might have stopped dancing.

He considers England's face, searchingly. Not the eyes – those dazzle and distract – but the familiar, mocking curve of his lips, the distinct, stubborn line of his jaw, those terrible, laughable eyebrows. The entire topography of his face; forget the obfuscating colour, the setting, the implied ignorance of France's identity, and underneath it all lies...

But of _course. _

There was never any loss. Nothing diminished. _No man is an island... _no subject of the consciousness is separate from the consciousness itself. And one cannot be trapped in the _scenery _of one's own psyche, but only in one's own form and thoughts and persona.

France impulsively grazes the azure cheek of this enigma with the tips of his fingernails; England shrinks away at his touch. "What game have you decided you're playing _now_?" he begins, falteringly, but France motions for him to be quiet.

He steps out of the hold, and seizes England's hand, clasping it in his own. Against the latter's lackadaisical struggles, he turns it over so that the palm faces the ceiling.

"Ah," says France, in quiet triumph. "I knew it!"

On the tips of England's fingers lie five pale lines – the very mirror of France's own scars.

How could he have failed to notice that, wherever they went, there was only ever _one _of the Englands present at a time? Even when he turned his back...!

"You're right – I _was_ operating under a delusion," says France, excitedly, unable to tear his eyes away from the scars. "I imagined you to be a splinter of England's character, shaped under the whim of the original core: the angel in the ice, who I sought to find. You were, at worst, an imitation; at best, a mask. Another figment of his imagination, one level above the multipurpose shadow spirits. But I was _wrong, _wasn't I? _You are_ _all England_! You, the angel, the bookkeeper, the imperial memory, even the reluctant torturer! I was not supposed to _physically _find you – what use is _that, _in the realms of thought? – but I was meant to _realise..._ _Angleterre, _I was meant to find you in your own head, and it took this long to understand what that actually meant! _You _are England. There is no 'real' England, because there is no 'imitation' England. Just - you."

When France raises his head, he is meets emerald eyes, pink-tinged cheeks, straw-coloured hair... England, _his _England, in his own, lifelike form – not a spirit, not an angel, or a fiend, but...

"Oh, well _done, _Frog," he says, smugly, as France stares at him in awe, and clutches at his hand as though he could drown in the wonder and the amazement and the _logic _of it all.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Hey guys! So, hope you're still with me after last instalment's twist! OK, this penultimate chapter is looong. Sorry about that. But there are snakes. And blood pacts, plus the effects thereof. And UST in spades. And Coleridge. So... enjoy? :)**

**(Oh, and also plot revelations. But more importantly, Coleridge.)**

* * *

"It _is _you?" says France, if only to render the soil barren even before the doubt has a chance to grow.

"What a fatuous question."

It is most definitely him.

What was lost has now been found, like some wilful Perdita – save the fact that this loss was always illusory. France feels as though he is drowning in the sight, reflecting on how _union _has always been so much less sweet than _reunion. _

Really, truly, _him. _Just as it always was.

Yet it took the realisation to unlock him; it took the mental shift to allow him to truly find England. For England _was _trapped within his own psyche; within his own distinctions. It took France to allow the facets of his character to unite as reality – perhaps it served as a reminder, an injection of reality. Yes, England simply needed to remember, to know... for what use is _being _without _knowing_?

That, or England was maintaining a deliberate facade all along. Maintaining the pretence for the purpose of some test? Some elaborate mind game, and no more? On the whole, doubtful. But no matter. For now, here he is – himself, more than ever.

"In which case," says France, contentedly, "shall we dance?" Questions will inevitably follow, but he wishes to extend the moment, to stretch it like spun sugar and savour the triumph of realisation.

His proffered hand is promptly ignored. "There will be no more _dancing,_" says England – assuredly, always, _England_ – with decision. Ah, he still has something of that ice in him.

"Spoilsport," says France – and never has he said it with more delight or with more of a sparkle to his countenance.

England looks around, taking in the hall, the stained glass, the shadow spirits – and then, with an irritable "come _on_", yanks France by the sleeve in the direction of the exit. So there are to be no elaborate words of reunion, then. No – once more France must find himself _in media res. _It is so typical of England that France can hardly summon the effort to complain; patiently, he allows himself to be led.

"I never thought of that," says France, more to himself than to his companion, as England tugs impatiently at the broad, oak door. "Never thought of just walking out the door. Why did I never think of that?"

The door yields and England pushes him roughly outside. "Because you're an idiot, that's why," he says, closing it once more, leaving the shadows to their uninterrupted dance.

France expects yet another natural jewel of a scene, chosen from the catalogue of the world's harshest climes, as always; he is startled to find that, upon exiting, what faces them is... _not _natural. They stand on a plateau of pure light – or rather, they stand on nothing, as there is no perspective, no horizon, or ground, or sky: there is only a shifting myriad of varying shades of green light. Bands of jade flicker, and lose themselves in waves of olive, emerald and turquoise. Like being trapped in the _aurora borealis_, or locked in a green sea of irregular colour, lapping from muted, to bright, to muted once more. Like falling, paper-thin veils of pigment, or tiger's eye. Permeating the cool air is the fresh, honeyed scent of gardens, which combines with a low murmur resembling the whisper of esoteric voices, or the rustling of leaves.

"Impressed?" says England, wryly, watching as France stands in a reverie of marvel and trepidation.

He collects himself, quickly. "Slightly," he answers, warily.

England laughs. "We are approaching the centre of it all," he says. "The depths of my mind, so to speak."

France raises his eyebrows. "I was always given the impression that we were never moving," he says, slowly. "It was merely the external aesthetic that shifted."

England nods. "That too."

"What."

England sighs, irritated. "Must we go into this?"

"It would be helpful to know what is happening, yes," says France, drily. He somewhat resents the fact that _all _of his meticulously constructed theories have been toppled, and rather wishes to salvage some intellectual credibility.

"If I truly _must _explain..." he says, running a weary hand over his brow. France takes this to mean that England does not understand it completely himself. Something of a comfort, that. "Look, we are not moving any _distance, _but through _ideas_. There is no physical movement, only mental progression, if that makes sense. If it doesn't, tough; I refuse to tailor complex concepts to suit your stupidity."

France's eyebrows lift even higher. "Understood," he says, with deceptive meekness. Then: "I think I preferred you when you were trapped in the iceberg."

The comfortable, arrogant look that rests on England's face whenever they snipe at each other falls, leaving a distant, melancholy expression in its place.

"It was a _joke_, _Angleterre,_" says France. It was, too. Outright hostility – much as it is their element – would only wither the fragile truce that seems to have grown between them. France has suffered for England's sake, and England knows it. Not that the hatred has ceased on either side. Certainly not. No, it is simply a heightened realisation of how much they appreciate having the other around to hate.

England shakes his head, softly, indicating that he understood, and is not overly offended. "He terrifies me," he says, hollowly, by way of explanation.

Shadows flit across the rippled green, seething in half-coherent shapes.

France blinks. "He was harmless. Innocent. Moreover, he is you. What is there to fear?"

One of the shadows twists into the form of a bird, which briefly billows its slender wings, before plummeting downwards and dissolving.

England turns to face him fully, eye to eye: their traditional stance for misunderstanding and revealing and lying, and sometimes, just sometimes, discovering the truth, mostly by accident. "There is everything to fear - idiot."

France snickers. "Sounds ominous." He watches the small shapes flutter like petals in the background.

"It _is,_" England snaps. "Whilst you were trying to discover him, I was desperate to seal him away. Do you remember that pure, guiltless expression of his? Yes, well it haunts my nightmares. That is the face I wore during war – I faced slaughter with him. He would witness massacre, terror, hatred – all with that same innocent, uncomprehending look on his face. _He _rendered me impassive before bloodshed."

"_Angleterre _that was _you._" As the only truth that he can cling to, France clings to it with tenacity. Yet, apparently, he was partially correct before: the England in the iceberg is distinct from all the others, at least in that he has a form of his own.

"It was the callous, emotionless side to me that I could not tolerate. Confronted with my own..." England laughs, harshly, leaving the last part of the sentence indistinct, as though he has a feeling in mind, but no corresponding word. "I can't believe it is _you _to whom I must explain _this_. What kind of punishment...?" France tilts his head, offended – and amused." Well. Anyway. I managed to seal him away in that iceberg, years ago. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to lock away a part of oneself? It was a painful, virtually impossible process. Literally impossible. Yet I succeeded in the form of your guide: the ice spirit. Together – as one – it gets difficult to phrase – we – I... trapped him."

France bites his lip, painfully. "He saved you. Just as he rescued me." He feels the image of the light, childlike England spiralling further away from him – and the loss causes more anguish than he would have predicted. But how he has misjudged the ice spirit!

England nods. "I am indebted to him. To the extent that anyone is indebted to an aspect of their own self."

"Mmm. I call that egotism," says France, for the sake of it.

"_You, _Frog, are hardly one to talk. You played a self-centred _Prometheus, _for God's sake."

The shadows are now spiders, skittering across what is ostensibly the floor; now they are miniature human figures, reminiscent of cave paintings, darting from all directions, armed with spears.

France hesitates, idly watching the shadow figures' progress. "Surely he... surely he – the one from the iceberg - cannot be so..."

"So what?" demands England. "Horrifying?" France looks away, unable to shape a fully-fledged counter-argument, but pressed at all sides by the notion that something is _wrong _with that idea. "Yes, you were quite infatuated with him, weren't you? I suppose you always did love the monster in me," adds England, harshly, when no answer is supplied.

"Untrue," says France, waving an experimental hand over a fleck of green light. It seems close enough to touch, but is in fact, like a rainbow, far off in the distance. The shadows have retreated now; what remains of them are slender tongues of dark green, resembling flames. "Completely untrue, _Angleterre._"

"Yes, your conviction in that is evident," says England, carelessly (and supremely unconvinced).

"Quiet, you. Listen. We were all monsters at one point," says France; England rolls his eyes. "You can't foist that tendency on one corner of your mind and separate it from the rest of you. Literally, you cannot."

"He is not separate!" interjects England. "Just... out of sight. Was, at any rate. Yes, I have you to thank for that."

"He escaped of his own accord," says France, insistently.

"Yes," says England. "Which is exactly what I find strange."

"Don't ask me to comment on the perversities of your psyche!"

"You're the existentialist," says England. "Surely you are _qualified._"

"You _defy _existentialism," says France, fervently.

"Well," says England, with a touch of mirth, "I can't see what you're doing here, if you're unwilling to shed light on the matter. It _is..._"

"... Ridiculously intrusive, I know."

Uneasily, they smile. Both, as far as France can tell, guarding against the implications of _that _idea.

"We have a blood pact," adds France, remembering. "What does that entail?"

England tilts his head to the side. "No idea. Aside from some vague notion of it binding us, I couldn't begin to attach a meaning. It was entirely your doing."

France stretches an investigative hand in front of him, considering the scars. "It was? How much control do I exert here?" He gives an experimental flick of the fingers, in a half-hearted attempt to cause the shadows to flicker – to no avail.

"Not much," says England, clenching his own hands out of reflex. "So don't get any ideas that you can overpower me in my own mind!" The colours around them writhe and darken, ferociously.

"I never imagined anything of the sort," says France, humbly. England narrows his eyes, unconvinced. France senses that this conversation has reached a dead end.

Instead, he decides to press another issue. "So, _Angleterre, _enlighten me. Why did all this _happen_? How did you lose yourself to begin with? I imagine it was partially deliberate. At the least, there must have been some purpose."

England blinks. Looks down. "I was never in need of rescuing," he says, obdurately. "How did you manage it, anyway?"

"Canada." (He did not answer the question, did he?)

"Ah."

France accepts that he will probably not be given any more answers from England, having seemingly exhausted his quotient for questions. Typical of England. He will be completely open – up until a point. Past said point, he will exhibit newfound reticence and refuse to disclose anything else of relevance. It would appear that this point is within sight.

Well. Not quite, for England's next words are: "Thank you, regardless."

France grins, remembering the last time he himself said that. "Trying to make me feel uncomfortable, _Angleterre? _Oldest trick in the book, that."

England smiles back. "Perhaps," he says.

They share a fleeting moment of amusement, before the closeness becomes too uncomfortable to bear and they are forced to look away. Possibly because it was not only a sign of amusement, but something perilously close to an _I'm glad you're safe, _and perhaps even an _I missed you. _Which, even when left unspoken, is exceptionally discomfiting for anyone. Best leave formalities which hit a little too close out of the picture entirely.

As to England's purpose – France imagines it involves his white alter-ego in the iceberg. Was it simply to ensure that he was safely incarcerated? To attempt to destroy him altogether?

_Dieu, _that poor, uncomprehending creature deserved better than to be locked in a frozen cell...

France realises in a detached sort of way that the building in which they danced has vanished. He does not comment on it – overall, it is barely worthy of note. They do not need it any longer; there is no reason for its continued existence. Abstractedly, he wonders if it is a common scene from England's thoughts, or if it was constructed specifically for (_by?_) him. Probably the former. Where _is _his own mind in all of this, anyway? Self-contained? It is only now that he actually has the time to seriously ponder any of this.

"Let's start moving, Frog."

Ah. Spoken too soon. There is _never _any time to ponder _anything, _except perhaps what kind of agonising torture is in store for him next.

"Moving where?" asks France.

England raises an expert eyebrow. "Forwards."

It seems as good a plan as any, which is to say that it is just as arbitrary as any other decision here, and thus more likely to yield favourable results than anything well thought out and planned.

And so, they walk. They are, France soon realises, chasing after the point from which the rays of light originate: a pinpoint of blinding white light. He steps gingerly, worried that, with each inch forward, there is more of a probability of falling – there is, after all, no way of telling whether they are walking on solid ground, liquid (which seems to abound in this setting) or air. Problematic, when you are uncertain of whether or not your surroundings are three dimensional.

Well, what does dimension amount to in the thoughts, anyway? Just as much as anything else. Nothing. All is abstract.

Which is not to say that pain does not matter. No, France is hardly in the position to say _that. _It is not, however, intended to tax the body, but the mind.

How can one tell the difference, when the body is _in _the mind?

"I need to get out of here," says France, through gritted teeth. "Your thoughts are driving me insane."

"That was... almost funny," says England, musingly.

"So glad that you can laugh at the expense of my sanity. Ah. Lack thereof."

They continue to move into the light. Soon, it becomes difficult to see each other, it is so bright and blinding – like venturing into a heatless sun. In all likelihood, it will be equally destructive.

France's sardonic observation proves slightly more accurate than he first thought. A sudden roaring noise floods his ears. Above the din, he tries to yell (in a voice which is not at all panicked, but possibly somewhat concerned): "Any idea what's happening, _Angleterre_?"

He fears that England has not heard him, but these concerns are momentarily assuaged as he cheerily replies: "Not a clue!"

... Momentarily being the operative word.

They are immediately propelled towards the centre of the light, by an irresistible force – one which throws their feet out from under them, stealing any shred of control they might have had. France barely has time to snatch England's hand as the two are flung into some unknown, dazzling void.

* * *

Canada stirs, noticing a change in England. He has been watching them studiously, yet this seems to have occurred whilst he was looking elsewhere for a fraction of a second. England's cheeks are flushed, a deep, hot red. Placing a hand on his forehead, Canada sees that it burns. Panicked, he runs to the kitchen once more for a water-soaked towel, applying it to England's cheeks, his forehead, his hands. The cool material is rendered lukewarm by the heat of his fever.

There is no change in France – his hands are as chilled as Canada's own.

There is nothing he can do but fetch a fresh cold compress and hope that the fever subsides of its own accord. So he does.

(... Is there any paracetamol here?)

* * *

France wakes to a scalding, grainy heat pressed against his cheek. His entire body burns. Opening his eyes and peeling his face off the floor, he blinks the scene into focus. He is greeted by a wide, flat desert; in the distance stand sloping dunes, but the nearby terrain is perfectly level, marred only by odd scattered pieces of wood and miniscule shards of glass. A dishevelled, foreboding landscape; the heat which floods it is oppressive.

Also, he is sitting eye-to-eye with a small, dun-coloured snake.

France recoils, staggering hurriedly to his feet – and perhaps, just perhaps, letting out an extremely undignified yelp of fear.

Deep laughter from beside him, like a purring tiger. England is lying on his stomach, legs crossed above, head propped up in his hands.

"It isn't venomous," he explains to a sceptical, ruffled France. "Even if it was, it wouldn't be its fault - poor thing." The last two words are spoken with little emotion, perhaps automatically. He lifts the snake delicately with his thumb and forefinger, swivelling into a sitting position. The snake twists, struggling uselessly to free itself. "You know, in Ancient Egypt, the snake was seen as a symbol of the imagination. Coleridge made much of that motif as I'm sure you know, addicted as you are to flinging my own poetry back in my face. I rather think it's to do with the movement." He allows the snake to drop. Promptly, it gathers itself up into a coil, then lashes out, flinging itself forward. "The imagination curls in on itself, and then expands, moving forwards at a great pace." Mindful of this, he arrests the much-abused creature once more, before it can escape.

"Leave it alone, _Angleterre,_" mutters France. "_Dieu, _you are like a small child pulling the wings off flies."

England chuckles. "I like that as an epitaph. But no, we need it. I remember what needs to be done now."

"Do you know where we are?" asks France, softly.

"In a manner of speaking. It has been a long time since I ever ventured so deep. I know these places like the back of my hand: that is to say, I could not draw them from memory, but once I see them again, I recollect details I am then surprised to have forgotten." So cheerful. So infuriatingly _jaunty, _as he admits his ignorance - to the extent where, if France did not know any better, he would not think it ignorance at all, judging only by the tone.

France groans, exasperated. "Truly, you are an informative guide."

"You are the one who is trespassing; the least you can do is bloody trust me," snaps England. "As it were." He lifts the snake and squeezes the side of its head; it is forced to open its mouth, revealing white fangs, like little pins. Roughly, England sinks them into the fleshy pad of his own thumb. The blood wells up instantly, dripping in thick clots; France looks away, shuddering, reluctant to witness any _new _wounding, however minor.

England snaps his fingers imperatively, forcing France to look back again. He proffers the snake.

"You must be joking."

One corner of England's mouth twitches upwards. "Blood pact," he says, amiably.

France rolls his eyes, but takes the snake. After a few ineffectual attempts, he manages to allow the fangs to pierce his thumb – not so deep as England, for France has never had much of a stomach for self-inflicted pain, but enough to suffice. It is a relief to set the snake at liberty; indignantly, it propels itself speedily away.

England allows his blood to drip onto the ground, motioning for France to do the same.

There follows a lengthy silence, in which the fiery heat pounds at the back of France's neck, but all else is perfectly still.

"I don't understand," mutters England. "The sacrifice ought to have..."

France nods. "_Blood pact,_" he says, emphatically, and, seizing England's hand, puts his mouth to the wound, tasting metal, and a kind of sickening dullness. He offers his own hand. England blinks, somewhat punch-drunk. Then realises. Briefly, catlike, he swipes a tongue over the scratch, tentatively tasting France's blood.

A hot, overwhelming pain slams through his body. The sheer intensity of it seems to drive his thoughts away, as though his mind is being forced out of his body, or pressured into a tiny, compact corner of his skull. Lifting an arm, he sees a brilliant white light running through his veins in the place of blood. A glance at England shows that he too is suffering these symptoms, yet the light which has forced itself into his veins is a piercing gold.

Slowly, the pressure recedes. Weak from shock, France struggles to stay upright, as the floor begins to crumble. Fault lines tear through the ground, widening into deep chasms. Waterfalls of sand drain into these seemingly endless abysses, leaving brittle rock. The two stand on a patch of ground which has not been torn, surrounded by wide gulfs. The remaining platforms of ground, with a resounding shudder, begin to move upwards – like tall, uneven pillars. France and England teeter on their own column as it rises dizzyingly higher.

"Another test?" says France, somehow managing to wrench out the words.

"This has never happened before," says England, darkly. "I suppose we are to jump from pillar to pillar." That said, he crouches, preparing to spring.

"No," says France, resting a warning hand on his shoulder. "I don't think so." No – so deep within England's mind, the key is not to struggle, but to succumb. Not to forge some meaningless test of one's own, but to throw away all makeshift rules and give in.

"You don't, do you? Then whatdo you suggest we –"

"Fall, _petit_. I think we are supposed to fall." Just as France was meant to fail, and the ice England was supposed to escape, and the blood pact was intended to bring pain...

Before England can respond – derisively, no doubt – France dives, propelling both of them simultaneously over the edge.

(Perhaps he ought to have waited for England's consent? Well – trust works both ways, after all. No use waiting for something as useless as permission or agreement when they have never permitted each other anything, or agreed on a single thing. All take, and steal, and yet there is still trust. Ostensibly.)

The fall is nothing like the languid descent in the water of before, or even the giddy plummet over the waterfall, with stingingly fresh air buffeting the face; this is a swift, resistance free plunge, effortless as they tumble down for all of maybe four seconds – brief, giddy timelessness – before the inevitable impact occurs. Yet somehow they pull _through _the collision, and continue to fall until they are no longer falling, but lying once more on different ground.

They are in another desert – but the sky is blood-red, framing a huge, unnatural sphere of fire that is neither sun nor moon, which seems to cast darkness rather than light over the surroundings. The atmosphere is almost pleasantly cool. France breathes a long, tired breath of relief, and, clutching at a handful of sand, finds that it is not sand at all, but a fistful of miniscule, gleaming jewels. He lets them drop, straining to hear the high, harmonious music they make as they collide with each other.

Jutting out of the multicoloured, glistening sand are great chunks of what appear to be ship wreckage: over there is a fragment of hull, and there, beside it, a broken mast, whilst the breeze toys with rags of what must have been sails.

Before them stands a stone sphinx, huge and imposing, with eyes set in sapphire. Her face resembles that of the figurehead on a ship, yet retains that look which can only be described as infuriatingly enigmatic. She regards them imperiously with what seems to be smiling condescension – but could just as easily be veiled contempt.

England pulls himself to his feet. "I hate you," he says, sharply.

"It worked, did it not?" says France, amused.

"Which is yet another reason why I hate you."

They approach the sphinx. England smiles, resigned. "Yes, I remember you."

No physical change is discernable, yet her eyes seem to flash with pride and indignation.

_You have neglected me, Britannia. I fall into disrepair._

Looking closer, France sees that this is true: the stone is weathered and uneven, with pieces hanging off in shabby flakes; the suggestion of colour that streaks her flank seems to indicate that once she was painted in vivid, bold hues which have long since worn away; traces of past vibrancy have all but faded with age and disregard. The ruin of something once colossal – easy to guess from whence the symbolism springs. But, thinks France, he cannot bring himself to clothe this impression in wryness; there is something majestic, and heartbreaking, about this particular decay.

England kneels before her, placing a gentle hand on her massive paw. "I know," he whispers, soothingly. "I am sorry. So sorry."

_I guard your secrets, yet you have not deigned to visit them for centuries._

"They are old," says England, and his voice resonates with so much regret, so much pathos, that even France shivers a little – perhaps out of some awful sense of nostalgia. Certainly not pity.

_And _you _are old._

England gives a harsh, mirthless laugh. "Not yet, I think. I was simply younger when I constructed all of this. My ideas were simpler, more defined. I thought I could lock away certain thoughts – hide certain impulses. Now there is less certainty, less clarity, and I find I need the key back again."

_And the interloper?_

France splutters. England gives him a brief, careless glance. "Oh – he must come too. I hardly want him trapped in the layers of my subconscious."

_Quite._ _Very well. _

England stands. "I suppose I have to answer a riddle, then?"

_No riddle. A question, merely. _

"Go on."

_What is your greatest desire?_

A pause. England shakes his head. "How am I to _know_?" His voice is pained – questioning, aghast, and more than a little petulant, to France's mind.

The sphinx gives no answer.

France raises his eyebrows. "Try a passing whim," he suggests.

England nods fractionally. "In which case. To confront _him._"

_There is so much of yourself which remains undiscovered... You may pass, Britannia – for the first time in years._

She opens her mouth; it stretches and widens, revealing a wide, dark cavern, framed by the sharp, jagged teeth of a lion.

"May the _interloper _pass as well?" asks France, pettishly.

"Oh, good grief, Frog, just follow me." Impatiently, England grasps his hand, scraping the snake bite on his thumb in the process, eliciting a small thrill of pain.

Duly, France allows himself to be tugged along; they walk through inky, clinging darkness and emerge in a shock of light.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Wow. We have reached the end. Thank you so much to everyone who has stayed along for the trip (and the trippyness) ! You have been **_**fantastic. **_**I hope you enjoy the finale. **

**By the way, I couldn't send a message to Kakita101 or echo – so I just wanted to say to both of you, thanks for your reviews! Echo: I've never heard of the theory of knowledge... I'll have to look it up some time! I've never studied philosophy, but I wish I had. I do take English Lit, though, which can be surprisingly similar...! :P**

**(Oh, and if anyone has any questions about this last chapter, or the fic in general, feel free to ask me! I know I've left many things unclear, so yeah, I probably owe several explanations...)**

**Right – I'll shut up now and let you read. :)**

* * *

Canada is tired, so tired, of waiting. France ought to have found him by now. It's his own _mind, _for God's sake; it isn't... _difficult_!

The only thing that could be holding them up is if England has decided to stay. Which is stupid, and dangerous, and therefore plausible.

Ten minutes and he'll call France back. Hopefully, along with England, whose face still burns at a startling temperature.

What happened to his watch, anyway?

Damn it.

Count to five thousand and he'll call them back.

Canada settles exhaustedly into the corner, struggling to find a position that will help him ignore the haze of sleep that has settled achingly over his vision, and loses count at three hundred and eighty... something.

Count to four thousand and...

* * *

The obfuscating light clears, enough so that France can see England's face, and note that their hands have come unclasped, but that is all right, as they are standing shoulder to shoulder, and England is most certainly still _present. _Funny how, at any other time, this would be cause for irritation on both their parts. France supposes that he has fallen into the habit of finding England, and is thus loath to lose him.

Before them stretches a tall platform, surrounded at all four sides by stairs of a honey-coloured material, neither wood, nor metal. It is surrounded by a thin haze of mist; as always, the clarity of experience is marred. Yet there is light: golden light, which permeates the air, warming their faces. France had not noticed he was so cold before, but there it is; he _was_ cold... and now he is warm.

At the peak of the platform stand two mirrors: side by side, large and ornate, in antique gold frames.

_This _is the culmination of the journey, then? Self-analysis. Of course.

"Shall we?" says France, beckoning, as he ascends the first stair.

England shakes his head, stubbornly, as though attempting to blot out the scene. "This is where it ends," he says. "Escape or entrapment. I was hoping there would be a... third way..."

France cannot help but laugh. "In light of the success thatapproach saw in relation to your political system, I am not entirely sure what you were expecting."

"Hate you," mutters England, frowning. He remains obdurately still.

"Be that as it may," says France, magnanimously allowing _that_ to stand unchallenged, "There is no choice. Aside from stagnation, of which, overall, I am not particularly fond."

"Always the first to greet danger with a God-awful inviting smile," grumbles England.

"There is no danger," says France, perhaps in some vague attempt at comfort. "I assume you're afraid to face him?"

"Not afraid! Never. Apprehensive, is all. If you had only _seen _him before, you would know," says England, persistently. Heaven forbid he should be accused of cowardice! France was levelling no accusation - funnily enough - but he does not blame England for the overreaction; since when has it been possible not to be guarded around one another?

No, France does not blame England at all. Naturally, England is terrified to face the monster of his own making – horrified to admit that there was no monstrosity from the outset, only misunderstanding and oversimplification.

"You mean the one you trapped?" asks France, as though he could have been referring to anyone else. "You could have mistaken him! How can you ever know for sure what one aspect of yourself truly reflects? Nothing is so clear-cut. I thought the ice spirit was your mask, but he isn't. He's your protector, is he not?" England looks up, startled. Nods, as though the thought only just occurred to him. France continues, regardless. "But even _that_ is uncertain, as it left him jaded, disconnected... when you try to put a name and face to your characteristics, they develop inexplicable life of their own. That is my conclusion." France makes an effort to relax, realising he has been clenching his fists. England's face is taught with a guarded sort of wariness. In a more light-hearted tone, to disperse the tension, France adds: "Incidentally, I think he was quite enamoured with me, in the end. The ice spirit, that is."

England gives a strangled sound of incredulity. Rather amusing. "He was not _enamoured, _you dolt; he was perplexed, that's all."

"Nonsense, _Angleterre. _Nonetheless – he is not the issue: it is the other one whom you fear so dreadfully. In him, I do not see a passionless monster. I see shades of your childhood. " England scoffs disbelievingly, but France cuts him off, continuing: "He holds that same curiosity in every aspect of his being – the same rapt adoration of the world around him. I wonder if you have not lost that too. Yet you haven't isolated him, or taken away his influence at all – you've simply ignored him!" This little diatribe is not particularly well rehearsed – it has only occurred to him recently – but France has always possessed something of a talent for sounding sure of himself, even when ill-informed. Especially when ill-informed. "It is simply damaging to separate your actions from yourself; even more so to define, and to split your own character into seemingly neat little categories. The distinction will always be false."

"So what do you suggest, Frog?" says England, tiredly. Tired perhaps because he is sick of this debate – too familiar, maybe, with an answer that grates in its inevitability and logic.

"Reconciliation."

England nods. "I thought so. Fine. Have it your way. I'll take a leaf from your book." He climbs to the stair above France, advancing with determination, saying "Let's go!" as if it was his idea to begin with.

Which, France realises, it must have been. England would never take his advice so willingly, unless it had been in the forefront of his own mind beforehand. It must have been his intention all along – _that _is why he journeyed so deep into his mind, risking the loss of his identity, and the breakdown of his own psyche: to unite himself. France is certain of this. Epiphanies, after all, are never so cheaply obtained.

* * *

For the umpteenth time, Canada searches their faces for any signs of movement – any spark of expression, however small. He really does not know why he is looking. France cannot leave without his assistance, after all; what he is really searching for is some sign that England is escaping on his own. Which is absurdly optimistic, but the fever must indicate _something_... some kind of inner turmoil; a boiling point, so to speak.

What are the _rules _of this? Canada wishes he could make them clear in his mind, but truly he only know that practice, unaware of the theory behind it. England was neither a patient nor thorough teacher.

(Not that he was to blame. He was a little preoccupied with gradually losing his Empire at the time. But, well.)

Five... hundred seconds until he brings France back. Except time works differently there, doesn't it? It's all relative. More relative than normal, even.

* * *

They reach the top of the platform, after climbing the remainder of the stairs in a turbulent sort of silence. As they approach the mirrors, France smiles, encouragingly. England scowls in return, which France chooses to believe is his equivalent of a smile.

They stand so that they are facing a mirror each (heavy frames with delicate engravings: what do they depict? The pictures are minute and indistinct). Each peers solemnly at what lies within.

Gazing in, France does not expect to see his own reflection, and is not disappointed: residing in the border, as the most lifelike portrait ever painted, is France's guide, England's protector: the ice spirit. His expression softens into something resembling emotion at the sight of France; France thinks of frost, and its tendency to thaw. Cautiously, almost questioningly, the figure in the mirror lifts his hands – those scars, like snowflakes – up and forwards, until they are pressed against the mirror. A flicker of the eyes invites a response. France slowly follows suit, allowing his fingertips to meet the cool, flat glass of the mirror. He can feel his heart beat, steadily, constantly – and is certain that he feels a similar pulse drumming from beyond the mirror. Connection. Harmony. In synchrony, the two whip their heads to the left, to face England, who still stands next to France – or perhaps the ice spirit is looking at the fourth one, in the adjoining mirror.

For in England's mirror, soft and uncomprehending, floats the pale-faced innocent from the iceberg. His eyes blaze with intense white fire, as he extends an imploring arm. It reaches the barrier of the mirror, and then passes effortlessly through, until his hand is outside, poised towards England.

England, who recoils in dismay.

_Courage, Angleterre, _wills France. He turns back to the ice spirit. Between their fingers – parted by the intrusive mirror – he notes small, scarlet stains. "We have a blood pact, you and I," says France, nodding. "Yes – we do everything by blood..."

The liquid collects into droplets, which drip down the mirror, mingling in curled, crimson lines, like some arcane calligraphy.

The England beside France still shrinks away from the England in the mirror. His fingers also trail blood, though the white one's hands are spotless.

France can almost hear England think: _why spotless? Why are _his _hands so clean? _

_Because, _thinks France, _if you disassociate yourself from him, there is nothing to stain. _

And England appears to sense this, for, steeling himself, he flings out a hand, grasping the one in the mirror, so tightly France fears his nails will pierce the smooth, clear skin.

The second they touch, the light recedes, draining away until darkness remains. Yet the two Englands are veiled by a gentle illumination that surrounds them like an aura.

There is a deep, fierce jolt from the ground below the platform. The mirrors crack, with a ghastly, pressured clash, like metal slicing metal, or a fissure in a glacier. Blood scatters in the impact, spotting the edge of England's robes. The glass then shatters, collapsing into a million crimson-tinged crystals.

The ice spirit vanishes with the glass. Yet the two other Englands remain, now floating above the ground, locked together in a fraught embrace: left hands clasped firmly together; England's right hand clinging viciously to the other's hair; the white one's right arm looped around England's back. Eyes locked frantically as one, transfixed, as though the world would end should one look away.

France wrings his hands together, letting the blood smear, feeling desperately alone.

With a terrible effort, England wrenches his gaze away from his adversary to face France. "Damn it," he murmurs, almost inaudibly. "The ice spirit is in your eyes..."

* * *

_Now, _decides Canada.

* * *

As soon as this is uttered, the white one shudders. With one sudden, violent movement, he buries his head in England's neck, in a distressed embrace which almost begs response, or empathy.

France feels a jolt of dizziness assault him, the force of it causing the scene before him to tilt. Sinking to his knees, he cranes his disorientated head upwards to watch the two.

England's expression modulates from one of grim resolve to that of astonishment. Slowly, almost unwillingly, as though only partially in control of his own actions, he relaxes the grip of his hand in the other's hair. He draws it around and rests a finger under the white one's chin, tilting his face upwards almost tenderly and – and _kissing _him...

France's eyes widen is astonishment. But something is dragging him, pulling him – tugging at his very being...

The two Englands, so closely entwined that it is impossible to distinguish the one from the other, are hidden by a sudden flare of harsh, blinding white light, so intense that France has to squeeze his eyes shut, and shield his face in his blood-sticky hands.

Around them, a rumbling noise tears through the floor – an earthquake of sorts. The vast room is shuddering, tortured: chunks of the golden ceiling break loose and fall, clattering brokenly to the floor. France is half aware of the destruction, but it seems so distinct from him – even his body seems a separate entity – for his consciousness is liberated, soaring free, diminishing, fading...

... _England..._

* * *

France wakes to the concerned face of Canada, looming anxiously over him. All is so unnaturally still – he is still living the memory of that colossal explosion, and finds he cannot quite reconcile the devastation of seconds before with the quiet closeness of this cellar...

Cellar.

"Canada, _mon mignon, _does this mean I am back...?"

Canada sits back in sheer, giddy relief. "Yes, you're back! Oh God, France, where's England?"

"He... I... wrestling with his angel, I suppose you could..." France is at a loss to imagine what has happened to England. Still trapped? Or was he always... free...?

"What happened in there?"

France shakes his head – not yet resolved enough to impart the tale. Instead, he turns his attention to England, lying prone on his lap, feverish and sweating. He tosses about as though struggling through a dream, as though making some stifled bid for freedom – but still he sleeps.

The next few moments are an agony of suspense, each nerve grated raw by England's every frenzied spasm. It seems hours; in reality, it is a handful of minutes. France holds him throughout, keeping the head still - those cheeks that glow with such sickly heat. Together, France and Canada keep their vigil, both willing his eyes to flicker open; rewarded by not a flash of consciousness or any sign of stirring. To France's infinite relief, Canada keeps all questions at bay, ravening bloodhounds of enquiries though they might be. Canada, to some extent, has always known France – and, unlike England, uses this knowledge to sympathise and act accordingly, rather than deliberately provoke. France almost misses the tormenting of the latter, but is more than grateful for the thoughtfulness of the former.

And then, he is struck by a laughable impulse. One which would shock with its brutality, were it not so _neat, _and possibly, oh possibly, _right._

Fumbling in his jacket pocket, France draws on a cold, metallic object: a penknife, engraved with the initials of someone or other. Truly, he cannot remember who he gave it to – a human, who died, a souvenir of some brief, intense affair or other – the details wear at the edges. He keeps the knife as a symbol of transience – or, perhaps, a sign of his own belated sentimentality. Anyhow – here it is, and thankfully he slipped it into the pocket of this coat a few weeks before, on – oh, what else? – a whim.

With only a fractional hesitation, he plunges the blade deep into his palm – eliciting more pain than one would expect, but no matter. Canada's eyes widen in something resembling fear, as, swiftly, France slices the palm of England's hand, identically. He aligns the symmetrical cuts, so the blood mingles – such a familiar, bittersweet gesture.

For a brief second, they all remain motionless – even England does not twitch.

No life in his eyes. Limbs locked in stillness.

France lets out a startling cry of frustration. "_Merde, Angleterre! Imbecile! _What does it _require _to bring you out of yourself?" Canada flinches at the outburst, seemingly terrified, but incapable of intervening.

A thought hits. France nicks a small cut on the tip of his own finger. Gently, he squeezes out a drop of blood, allowing it to fall like some preternatural raindrop. It lands on England's motionless, dry lips, staining the chapped pink a grim scarlet.

"I am your link to the world," France murmurs. "That is what _connection _means. So follow, damn you. Just because I _dislike _you does not mean I will tolerate losing you."

Canada leans forward, stunned. "... What? France. Please explain what _happened_."

France is saved from recounting exactly what transpired, how he found England, only to lose him on numerous occasions – the last time, perhaps irrevocably – by a small splutter from beside him.

It is actually quite comical, decides France, the way they so frantically lean in, desperately checking England's face, pulse, eyes for any flicker of life. Luckily, they are delivered from any amateurish doctoring by a faint, unintelligible murmur from the patient.

"_Angleterre!"_

England's eyes flutter dimly open – a glimpse of sleepy green half-hidden by a gold mess of eyelashes. "Frog, I think..." he whispers, his voice raspy and insubstantial. But most certainly _there, _and _audible, _hence _alive_.

"Don't try to speak," says Canada, nervously.

Disregarding this advice, France moves closer, gently cradling England's head in his – blood-drenched, scarred, overall much-abused – hands. "_Petit, _what happened after I left? You acknowledged him, yes? You did not try to discard or trap him...?"

"N-no, I... he is... me."

France lets out a happy sigh of relief. Canada watches them, puzzled.

"What...?"

France smiles, tiredly. "He tried to separate himself – fool that he is – tried to distinguish between absolute good and absolute evil. The evil was a scapegoat, and now, he has returned to him."

Canada blinks. "Will he be OK?" he asks, fretfully. "He won't... I mean, you say – evil?"

France shakes his head. "I doubt that there will be any adverse affects. The fragment did not disappear – its separation was a skilfully crafted illusion. He recognised that, I think. I doubt his behaviour will change for the worse, although I do not blame you for worrying." Softly, he leans down, and kisses England lightly on the forehead. "But then, I always did love the monster..."

Canada simply _looks, _in distinct confusion. "OK," he says, eventually. "Right. Sleep. The two of you need to _rest. _Camp out on a sofa or something – God knows this house has enough useless furniture – you're in no condition to drive home."

"Were you worried, _petit_?" smiles France.

"Of course I was! You _left _me here, _alone _to – to _fester_! And _wait_! So yes – I worried!"

"There was no need," France assures him. "It was all in the abstract, anyway."

"So _why _did he... you know... anyway?"

France ponders, drafts a few inadequate answers in his head, and eventually decides to be evasive. "He will claim he didn't need any help," he says. "But I think he was trapped within his own conscious creations. The subconscious has a way of complicating matters, reducing definitions to nonsense..."

"I'm not going to get a straight answer from you, am I." No question, just resigned acceptance – and a trace of amusement amidst the frustration.

France laughs, savouring the fact that he can take the time to do so. "I will tell you what happened, right now, if you wish," he says, sincerely. "But I do not think it will lend itself to any answer, straight or otherwise..."

* * *

"So," says France, in the morning. He and England have risen exceptionally early – he doubts they would be able to settle their thoughts for any amount of time upon waking – although Canada still lies fast asleep. After listening raptly to the whole of France's tale he had collapsed unconscious, almost on cue. "I won't ask what happened after I was brought back. You returned only minutes after me, but I suspect time operates rather fluidly in the mind – we, for instance, have only been gone for one day, in the physical world. I do, however, have questions."

"You sound so certain I'll answer." Since returning, England has seemed somewhat shaken, but this has done nothing to diminish his haughtiness, or even curb his tongue overmuch. France can detect no monumental change in his behaviour; no evidence of the new harmony which must nonetheless govern his thoughts.

"I don't doubt that you'll answer, albeit with impossible elusiveness."

England rolls his eyes, though the effect is somewhat diminished by the small smile which plays upon his lips.

France considers where to begin. _Did you intend from the start to set the white one free? How much of what happened was a product of your mind, and how much was a product of mine? Who was recuing whom? How much of this was deliberate? How far did you deceive me? Why was the ice spirit in _my _eyes?_

These are not, he decides, questions with readily available answers.

Instead, he settles for: "Do you still have the scars on your fingertips?"

England holds up the palm of his hand. "Yes. I suppose you do too?"

France duplicates the motion, lifting his hand so that the marks are visible.

"What was that bloody... _blood _pact business all about?" asks England.

"I do not know for certain. I thought _you _did, at first," says France, carelessly. "But I could hazard a guess," he adds.

"Do tell," says England, impatient with the stalling.

"I think," says France, pressing his palm against England's and lacing their fingers together, "that it means something different, yet underneath astonishingly similar, to the both of us." Warmth radiates almost unbearably from their hands, forging a kind of intimacy that transcends reason, and discomfits both. But they do not break away.

"S-stupid answer," says England, a little flustered.

France smiles broadly, radiating that unique arrogance that he knows infuriates England almost as much as England's conceit irritates him. "I think it means we are two of a kind, you and I."

"We are _nothing _alike. Shared history – that's _it._"

Nonetheless, England still does not let go. They sit, face to face, eye to eye, hand to hand, for an endless moment, not speaking, not misunderstanding, perhaps not even communicating at all – but oddly, irrevocably _connected._

**Fin. **


End file.
